So, What Happens Now?
by katkin
Summary: John had found it eerie at first, and then the eeriness faded into a dull comfort. At intermittent moments he'd feel a set of eyes watching. He never caught him at it. Of course he didn't. He was Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is the sequel to **Harder To Breathe **and **The Broken Man**. I'm overwhelmed by the response I have gotten from both stories. This was only meant to be an epilogue, but I'm making it into a story in its own right. I hope I do it justice for fans of the previous two. Here it is...

* * *

"Smiling though we're close to tears, even after all these years, we just now got the feeling that we're meeting for the first time." The Script.

Prologue

John had found it eerie at first, and then the eeriness faded into a dull comfort. Of course, he knew that it wasn't _all _the time (that would have been really weird!) but at intermittent moments he'd feel a set of eyes watching. He'd look up from a newspaper, or glance around on an escalator. He never caught him at it. Of course he didn't. He was Sherlock Holmes.

It made John want to leave the house again. Whether it had been dull, rain-sodden passers-by or people going about their daily lives in the hazy sunshine, John took care to study each face that passed him. One day, he would see him. One day, he would meet Sherlock Holmes again ... But what then?


	2. Chapter 2

John hated weekends. Weekends were for people who were insanely busy all week, and who begged for the relief of lie-in, and pints at the pub. For John, the weeks dragged so slowly that by the weekend he had had enough, _thank you very much!_ Besides, the weekend meant more people; shoppers, tourists, people living their lives. It got on his nerves.

It had been several months since he'd last seen his friend Sherlock. Several long months in which John had managed to pick himself up and begin to feel like a human being once more. He was trying. God, he was trying.

It was a dreary Saturday morning and John found himself in the queue at Costa Coffee, waiting with adequate patience. He scanned the room as he stood there, allowing the warmth and aroma from the cafe to surround him. Eventually he reached the front of the queue, and a young man with messy blonde hair served him with a smile.

As John absent-mindedly handed over his cash, the young man grinned and shook his head.

"You're John Watson, right?" the barista said. John stood, eyes blinking in confusion, the money still held out between them. Who was this dishevelled youth who knew his name? John eyed him suspiciously.

"Uh...yes. Yes I am."

The young man smiled and shook his head.

"You don't need to pay," he explained. "A man came in earlier. He gave me some money for your coffee and said it was on him."

John realised that his mouth hung open, and words suddenly came to him.

"Uh, this man, was he tall? Dark hair? Pale? Rude?" The barista laughed at this.

"Yes, that's right. It's a bit odd really. But, hey! Free coffee for you!" He seemed really pleased to be involved with this random act of kindness. John smiled politely and accepted the coffee. As he began to turn, the young man called him back.

"Hey, wait! I almost forgot. He gave me this to give to you." John was handed a paper napkin, folded over haphazardly. John smiled his thanks again, and left the cafe at a pace, feeling his cheeks heat up. Once outside, he unopened the napkin with difficulty, trying not to spill his coffee. Inside, in familiar handwriting, were written two words:

Happy Birthday!

John laughed, and looked down the street. He wasn't there.

* * *

John made his way to Regent's park, and sat heavily down on a bench. The temperature had dropped and, sure enough, light rain began to fall. John remained there, staring intently at his birthday message from his closest friend. As the rain fell heavier, he placed the napkin in his coat pocket and gave it a tap of reassurance with his hand. His phone began to ring, and John pulled it out with a huff. Harry. He shoved it back in his pocket, still ringing, and watched the rain fall. John was waiting. He knew he wouldn't come.

John tried to recall his previous birthday but found that he couldn't. Where had he spent it? Who with? He supposed it didn't really matter. It was just a day. It had probably rained. He recalled his mother telling him throughout his life that it had rained when he was born. He hadn't really understood the point of telling him this. It was England after all, and it rained more often than not. But to John, it was almost as if his mother had written him off as a melancholy child from that day forth. He forced a smile on his face to make a point. He was a man, alone on a bench, in the rain, on his birthday...with a smile on his face. _Weirdo!_

John considered phoning his friend Bill, or going to the cinema or perhaps Nandos. Maybe he'd go to a bar, and drink a pint and then another. It was his birthday after all. But then he remembered that he'd promised Mrs Hudson he'd watch The X Factor with her, and he was beginning to get soaked through to the skin, so he stood slowly from the damp bench and shuffled his way back to the warmth of 221b.

As the door shut with a bang behind him, John stood in a brief silence before he heard a shrill voice from the hallway.

"John, the carpet! For goodness sake!" Mrs Hudson chastised. John cringed and kicked off his shoes, glad Mrs Hudson had bustled out of sight as they hit the wall paper with a thud. She came back swiftly with a towel, and John rubbed at his wet hair. The bottoms of his trousers were soaked through, and they left wet marks on the carpet. He made his way with a strange tip-toed walk, to the bottom of the stair case.

"What do you want for your tea?" she was asking him, picking up his wet shoes. He gave a sullen shrug.

"I'm not really that hungry."

"That's a shame. I've baked you a cake." He noticed a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you," he mumbled quietly, and pulled her in to a hug.

"Soggy!" she exclaimed and he smiled internally, pleased with himself. "Your sister phoned," she called after him as he headed up the stairs.

"Oh," he replied in disinterest. He frowned as he walked away.

"What have you got a face on for?"

"I haven't. I'm fine. Sorry," he mumbled as he walked away, leaving her in the hall.

John took off his sodden coat and hung it on the back of the living room door. He took a few steps away from it and then turned back, reaching into the pocket to remove the damp paper napkin.

He thought of Sherlock, and wondered where he might be. Still in London, it seemed. John wondered if he was getting wet somewhere, wearing some highly fashionable but highly impractical coat. John smiled at the thought.

On the desk, John found the post, which Mrs Hudson had brought up and placed in a pile, in size order on the desk. It always made him smile. He flicked through the envelopes, recognising some of the hand writing, and quickly skipping the bills.

He crossed over to the windows, looking down on the rain-washed streets. Somewhere, underneath one of those large umbrellas could be Sherlock Holmes. John liked to think he'd knock abruptly on the door, dripping all over the carpet and getting told off just had John had done. He'd rush up the stairs in his impatient nature and rant away with his usual flair:

_John, put the fire on, it's freezing in here!_  
_John, I'll have a tea if you're making one._  
_John, can I borrow your phone?_

_...I missed you, John._

John remembered the last few words Sherlock Holmes had said to him, in that very living room in the cold of the night. John also remembered punching him hard in the face. He did regret that now. He should have pulled him into a hug, screamed at him incoherently, and been so relieved to see his best friend alive again. But he hadn't been. He had been angry. John was still angry even now.

A thud from behind him made him physically jump. Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway, John's shoes by her feet.

"Honestly, John. What's gotten in to you today?" She walked to his side and pulled the curtains closed.

"Nothing." He wanted to tell her. Should he? "I'm sulking," he lied. "I'm getting old."

"If you're old, then what am I?" she laughed, sitting herself down onto the sofa and thumbing on the television with the remote.

"_You_...are perfect," he said, throwing himself down beside her and giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Did I hear you mention cake?"

She laughed and lifted herself off the sofa.

"Just this once, because it's your birthday."

They sat watching the shocking display of Saturday night television and tucking into a large piece of chocolate cake. Mrs Hudson seemed to hesitate several times over unspoken words. Eventually, she plucked up the courage, taking John's hand in hers.

"It's ok to miss him today. I miss him too."

A huge weight formed in John's stomach. He should tell her, he knew he should. Every day that passed made it harder for him to tell her the truth. But he had to, one day. What if Sherlock came back? What if he didn't?

"I miss him every day," John replied quietly. He picked up the plates and took them to the kitchen, where he stood frozen with guilt. He was a terrible, terrible person. And Sherlock had made him this way. John took the folded note out of his pocket, and looked at it one more time. He scrunched his eyes up and took a deep breath.

"John?"

His eyes flew open as he heard his name called from the other room.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

The napkin was screwed up and pushed hurriedly into the bin.

Mrs Hudson was smiling at the television, and didn't see John's look of anguish as he sat back down beside her.

"You know, Love," she said to him, eyes still on the screen, "he'd never have remembered it was your birthday."

John swallowed hard.

"Yeah...yeah, you're probably right."

That night, John tried hard to sleep as the rain lashed against his window. He rolled over, and blinked in the darkness, at the crumpled napkin on his bedside table.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for the response to this story so far. I'm not so keen on this chapter, so I'm posting the next one as well, as things are starting to happen. Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy :-)

* * *

It was 8:30am and John was awake. Not only that but he was washed and dressed too, and tucking in to a single slice of toast. Granted, he'd had to cut the crusts off, as they'd become suspiciously green. But it was breakfast nonetheless.

"Bloody hell, John," a female voice exclaimed from the doorway. "What's got you up at this time?" John hid behind his toast. Mrs Hudson bustled into the living room and threw open the curtains. As the room was filled with pale morning light, his landlady scrutinised him, noting his attire.

"Did somebody die?"

"No," he laughed. "I happen to have a job interview today."

Mrs Hudson paused from her fussing and frowned.

"You never said."

"I'm saying now."

The woman nodded thoughtfully, and picked up the plate and mug which John had left on the coffee table. She took them silently into the kitchen. It was a few moments before she popped her head around the kitchen door.

"Is it...in London, this job?"

"Yes," he replied hurriedly. "I'm not going anywhere. You can't get rid of me that easily."

Mrs Hudson laughed quickly, and John saw the flash of relief in her eyes. He smiled to himself.

"I'm off to the shop. Anything you need? Milk? Bread? Coffee?"

"Yes...to all of those," John said and she huffed in mock distain.

"See you later. Have a good day." She kissed him on his hair, before heading for the stairs.

* * *

John felt a strange air of change around him as he walked towards 221b that afternoon. He gave a quick wave to Mrs Turner next door, as she watched the world go by. He let himself in and, instead of heading up the stairs, made his way down the corridor to Flat A. He knocked and pushed open the door.

"It's only me!"

"In here, Love."

Mrs Hudson was stood in front of the television, iron in her hand, concentrating hard on the creases in a bed sheet. John noticed that it was his.

"Just call me Doctor Watson."

"Well it is your name, dear," she said to the sheets before looking up with a grin. "You got the job then?"

"Yeah. It's in the E.D. at Bart's. It will be slightly more exciting than Diagnosis Murder."

Mrs Hudson pulled him into a hug.

"Good for you, John. You look happy."

"I feel happy. I'm going for Chinese. What would you like? Lemon chicken?"

Once they'd eaten, and John had insisted on doing the washing up, Mrs Hudson made her way to the front door to see Mrs Turner.

John heard her footsteps, followed by a loud rap at the door. Mrs Hudson exchanged greetings with another voice before the door closed again, and footsteps began to climb the stairs. John had gotten rather used to identifying visitors from their steps, and remained by the sink with his back to the door.

"I'm in the kitchen," he called. A head popped round the door, and then a tall man in a dark suit stepped into the room. "You're still alive then?"

"Yes, obviously. I suppose I deserve that comment."

"You should have come earlier, we've just had Chinese."

Mycroft Holmes shrugged his indifference, and helped himself to a prawn cracker from the bowl on the kitchen table before sitting down on a wooden chair.

"Congratulations on your new job offer."

"How did you –" John cut himself off with a shake of his head. He removed his hands from the washing up bowl and dried them with the tea towel as he turned to regard his visitor. "How's Europe?"

"Oh, you know."

That was the typical depth of Mycroft's office-talk. John didn't ask again. He moved to make Mycroft a cup of tea without even asking if he wanted one.

"I meant to pop in on your birthday, but I was stuck in Taiwan."

"Shame. Mrs Hudson baked a cake. We saved you a piece, but I ate it." Mycroft looked thoroughly disappointed at this. "Well, it _was_ three weeks ago," John spoke up in his own defence as he placed the mug heavily in front of his guest.

Mycroft flicked through the newspaper on the table, though John supposed that it was old news to the likes of Mycroft Holmes. He began to tell John of flight delays and bad weather, and he asked after Harry in a tone which implied that neither of them really cared what she was up to. John wasn't listening though. He was concentrating on something else.

As Mycroft spoke of Harry, John began to think of Sherlock. He thought back to the Memorial Day, and the bright white coffin that Mycroft had insisted upon. He thought of the words which Mycroft had said that day, and he wished he could go back and re-hear them knowing what he now knew.

"Is something wrong?" Mycroft asked into the newspaper. He sounded so typically Sherlock that John gave a laugh.

"No. It's nothing." John fell silent, and stared into his mug. It was several minutes before he spoke again. "I'm thinking of telling Mrs Hudson."

"That you're a closet BNP supporter?"

"You're very funny! No, I mean about Sherlock."

Mycroft looked up from the newspaper and frowned at John.

"Why would you do that?"

John thought about this. Why would he do such a thing? He was tired of the pressure of it all. He was tired of the guilt every time the woman mention Sherlock's name. Mostly, he was just tired.

"I...I don't know," John lied flatly. Mycroft sat up on his chair and scrutinised John in a way which made him want to look away. He didn't. "I just think, maybe I'll sleep better at night."

"I don't think it's that which is keeping you awake at night, John."

John chewed on this in silence for a moment.

"What if he comes back, Mycroft?"

"What if he doesn't?"

A wave of cold washed over John and he shivered. He got up from the table and busied himself at the sink, ignoring the feeling of Mycroft's pale eyes upon the back of his head. A lump formed in the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down, along with the words he was desperate to scream.

"John?"

"I'm fine." His voice came out strangled. It was an obvious lie.

"How would you feel about that?" The question surprised John. Did Mycroft really care? Or was it a case of Mycroft not knowing how he felt about it himself?

"I'm frightened for him," John replied simply. "I'm frightened I'll never see him again, but..."

"You're also frightened he'll come back?"

John nodded dully, feeling a huge sadness wash over him.

"What do I say to a dead man? What do I say to someone who put me through hell?" John was asking himself bitterly.

"It sounds to me like you have plenty you'd like to say to him," Mycroft remarked and John laughed. The tension suddenly lightened and John squeezed Mycroft's shoulder on his way to the cupboard.

"Would you like a biscuit?"

"It would be rude not to."

John had found it awkward spending time with Mycroft at first, but the more he had gotten to know the man, the more he liked him. He found Mycroft much more light-hearted than he had ever been around his younger brother. And, in the midst of his busy work hours, Mycroft had become a regular visit at 221b. It had taken several visits from Mycroft for John to realise that the man had probably never had a friend before. He thought back to their sinister first meeting in a cold, damp warehouse, and then watched his friend dunking a chocolate digestive into his tea, cursing when it fell into the mug with a splash.

John couldn't quite believe how far the pair had come. And although Mycroft turned up unannounced at random intervals throughout John's life, John was thankful for it. Mycroft was the only connection John felt he had to Sherlock anymore. Everything else had fallen away. John knew, with a heavy heart, that even if Sherlock Holmes walked through that door, things could never be the same again.


	4. Chapter 4

Several weeks later, John sat lazily on the sofa, half-watching the television. Mrs Hudson entered carrying two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits. She sat herself down next to John, as the pips of the BBC News Theme played out on the television.

"Have you seen this?" she asked, nibbling on a chocolate digestive. "They never found that M.P. He went into one tube station and never came out on the other side."

John snorted as he slurped his tea.

"Maybe he's still in there." She eyed him quizzically. "These engineering works are a nightmare." He laughed at his own joke, and she sighed at him.

They watched the news report in silence for a moment, before Mrs Hudson spoke again.

"You've got that look on your face," she remarked.

"What look?" John mumbled through a biscuit.

"That...Holmesian look."

John laughed loudly.

"Force of habit," he admitted. "There's nothing like a good murder mystery on the lunchtime news."

"It gets us ready for Diagnosis Murder," Mrs Hudson agreed.

They were silenced by the familiar face of Detective Inspector Lestrade, speaking at a press conference.

"Oh, look at him John. He looks tired, doesn't he? He's lost weight. Poor man. We should invite him round for tea one night."

It was a strange image that filled John's mind of Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and himself sat around the kitchen table eating Shepherd's pie. What on Earth would they talk about? He doubted very much that Lestrade watched Diagnosis Murder. _He really should,_ John mused, _it might give him some tips._

_

* * *

_

It was two days later, when John had cause to contact D.I Lestrade, though not for a dinner invite.

John had been walking down Baker Street, from the tube station, on his way home from a long shift at work. He scowled at his phone as he read yet another text from his sister. John looked up from his mobile phone, moments too late, as a stranger went hurtling into his bad shoulder. John gave a yelp of pain and surprise. He looked behind him to see the man walking off into the crowded street calling the words "Watch where you're going, jack-ass!"

"Dick head," mumbled John under his breath, and kept walking. He shoved his phone into his pocket irritably. He knew he hadn't been looking where he was going, but he was still cross. If Harry hadn't sent him a text in the first place, it wouldn't have happened. Of course, it was all Harry's fault!

John arrived home in a grump, and threw his coat over his chair angrily. His shoulder felt tender, and he rubbed it with his hand and paced the room. From the depths of his coat pocket, his phone began to ring. Knowing who it'd be John snatched his phone from his pocket.

_Caller: Harry._

"I'm not in the mood, call me later," he snapped angrily down the phone before his sister could speak.

"God, John! You're such a woma–" Harry was cut off mid-sentence, as John ended the call.

John was in the process of shoving his phone back into his pocket when he stopped. He pulled his hand from the pocket, and withdrew a small, white envelope. John frowned, and turned it over in his hands. On the front was written his name in familiar handwriting. He swallowed hard, and instantly looked around him. The house was silent.

John's hands were cold, and he fumbled with the envelope. Inside, he found a small key and a short note in the same hand writing:

_Waterloo Station.  
Locker 3._

John frowned at the note, and his stomach gave a strange tug which he hadn't felt in a long time. It took him a beat to remember what that feeling meant.

_Sherlock Holmes had solved a case! _

John wanted to laugh out loud. It was so typical of Sherlock. The man was supposed to be in hiding for goodness sake! But John knew that the consulting detective wouldn't be able to help himself if a mystery was involved.

John placed the note and the key onto the coffee table. He paced the room for a few moments, fighting his inner conflict. What exactly did Sherlock expect him to do with this information? He grabbed his phone and thumbed down his contacts until he came to a name which he never thought he'd call again: **Lestrade**.

John no longer felt tired. All feelings of fatigue grumpiness faded away as the call began to connect. It felt an age as the phone rang against John's ear. Suddenly, he was filled with a huge wave of excitement as a familiar voice answered.

"Lestrade."

"Um...hello. It's John Watson here." John felt suddenly foolish, but was pleased to hear a welcoming tone on the other end of the line.

"John! Hi. It's been a while."

"Yeah. Yes, it has. Listen, I'm sure you won't be surprised to know that this isn't a social call." He thought of shepherd's pie and smiled. "I've actually got something I think you need to see." John was relieved to hear the man reply with interest.

"I'll be right over."

Half an hour later, a car door could be heard slamming on the street, followed by a rapping on the front door. John bounded down the stairs with as much agility as a wounded ex-soldier in his thirties could manage. In the hall he hesitated. What exactly was he going to say to the Detective Inspector? He could hardly produce key information in a murder enquiry without giving any explanation. Perhaps Lestrade would figure it out. John knew the man was more intelligent than Sherlock gave him credit for.

Taking a deep breath, John opened the door and smiled at the man in front of him. Detective Inspector Lestrade smiled back. They shook hands awkwardly and Lestrade stepped into the hallway.

"Uh, thanks for coming so quickly," John said as the pair made their way to the first floor.

"That's alright. It's not like you to give me a call these days, I assumed it was important."

They came to a halt in the living room.

"Take a seat. Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you."

John nodded and shuffled his way to the desk by the window. Crossing the floor to the sofa, he sat down next to Lestrade and handed him the white envelope. The man frowned at it.

"What's this?" He turned it over in his hands, reading John's name in scrawled black writing.

"I think it has something to do with the missing M.P," John explained lamely. He was beginning to wish he'd gone to Waterloo to check before getting the police involved.

"May I?"

John nodded, chewing on his lip, as Lestrade looked inside the envelope, and pulled out the note and the little brass key.

"I'm assuming the key is for the locker?" he asked. John just shrugged. "You haven't checked this for finger prints?"

"No of course not," John scoffed. "Why would I have that kind of equipment in my home?" Lestrade simply raised his eyebrows. John sighed. "I don't anymore! I threw it away...I think. Look, this is yours now. Do what you want with it."

John looked agitated and he knew it. He headed quickly to the kitchen, insisting on putting the kettle on. Lestrade frowned as he looked at the evidence in front of him. Was this connected to the missing MP? Or just a hoax? Either way, why had they sent it to John. He swallowed hard before calling to John in the next room.

"John..." He heard clattering of mugs and teaspoons. "John, do you know who sent this to you?" The noise stopped. "John?"

There was a pause before John stood in the kitchen doorway.

"Maybe," he answered. "Kind of."

"What do you mean 'Kind of'?"

"Look, I can't really tell you. You know I wouldn't have contacted you if I didn't think it was important. I've handed it over. Now go and do what you do."

Lestrade stood and walked over to John, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than that," said Lestrade. John wanted to scream at him. Wasn't it bloody obvious? But Lestrade stood there impatiently, expecting an answer. "Fine, then I'll arrest you for withholding evidence in a murder investigation."

"No, you won't," John scoffed with only the slightest feeling of worry inside. That would look great on his C.V under his ASBO. Lestrade just laughed.

"No, hopefully it won't have to come to that." He heaved a sigh. "Right, we'll head down to Waterloo then. The car's outside." He made his way to the door.

"What? We?"

John had just finished a 14 hour shift. His body wanted a nap. His stomach wanted food. But strangely enough, his feet were heading towards the stairs.

"Yes. We. I'm keeping a close eye on you John Watson. Behave yourself though. Sally's in a foul mood today."

"Right you are!"

As they headed for the door, John couldn't shift the smile from his face.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This is far longer and much more angry than I planned it to be. Hey ho. Things will get happier, trust me. Thanks for the reviews.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and co aren't mine.

* * *

The police car pulled into a taxi rank outside Waterloo station. John entered the station, his limbs feeling heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut. It felt like a dream; a very real dream. This had been his life for some time, following an irate Lestrade as the search for a killer heightened. But it couldn't be real, could it? John must have fallen asleep on the sofa. He'd never had a dream so real before. But it must be a dream. Sherlock wasn't there.

John was snapped from his reverie by Lestrade talking heatedly to the Station Security Officers. Several uniformed police officers stood on the forecourt, waiting for their next instruction. John began to hope that there would be a body to show for all of this. He shook the thought from his head. He felt himself fade into the background of passing travellers, most of which were unfazed by the presence of police officers. A small voice spoke up by John's ear. He spun on the spot.

"I'd forgotten about you," Sally Donovan said bluntly. "What are _you _doing here?" He frowned. He'd been asking himself the same question.

"Sally...hi. I'm just...passing by."

"Have they asked you to help?" she asked incredulously, and John felt his face become hot under her scrutiny.

"I'm more of a hindrance really," he assured her but she'd already begun to march off.

Lestrade was suddenly by John's side and had begun to usher him towards the locker area of the station.

"Am I really necessary in all of this?" he found himself saying out loud. Lestrade drew his lips into a tight line and nodded.

"_You_ called _me_, John. Besides, it's your key."

"No. No, it's not _my_ key!" he insisted as they came to a halt. Damn Sherlock Holmes!

"This is Doctor Watson," Lestrade told a member of the forensic team. John was glad it wasn't Anderson. He would have turned on his heels and left them to it. Instead, he crossed his arms and attempted to look disinterested, but as his eyes fell on locker number three, curiosity bubbled up within him and he found himself trying not to smile. _Really_, damn Sherlock Holmes! He opted for something that resembled a grimace.

"Doctor Watson will be assisting –"

"–Observing." Both men spoke at the same time and then looked at each other in surprise.

They made their way to the third locker, and stood in silent anticipation as Lestrade pulled the little key from his jacket pocket.

"Care to do the honours?"

"I _really _don't."

"The envelope had your name on it." John scowled at Lestrade and the man sighed. "What are you expecting us to find in there, John?"

"I don't know!" he insisted.

"I think you _do_ know," Lestrade replied. John refused to look at him, and kept his eyes fixed on the number three. The tension built as Lestrade opened the padlock on the locker with a slow, deliberate movement. Lestrade made a noise between a cough and a wretch, as he pulled on a zip to a large black holdall. The smell was unbearable. John took a step back and looked away, his eyes beginning to water.

The D.I murmured something to his colleague, before reaching for his radio.

"Donovan, cordon off the area. We've struck gold." He sounded far from pleased. Turning to John he ushered him away from the body. "I've seen a lot of things in my time, but that wasn't a pretty sight."

John simply nodded numbly. He couldn't quite get his head around it all. Sherlock had discovered a dead body, but it was John who would have to produce the explanation. He felt himself become pleased and angry all at once. It was a frustrating feeling. It made his skin feel hot.

"I need to speak with you," Lestrade said darkly, and the pair walked briskly through the station and out of the main entrance. Lestrade climbed into the back of a police car, and John mirrored him. They sat in silence for a long moment.

"What's going on, John?" the D.I asked eventually, sounding tired.

"Nothing. I don't know." John replied a little too quickly.

"Do you know who murdered that man?"

John hoped to God that he didn't; that this wasn't all an act of Holmesian boredom. He supposed it was possible but not probable.

Perhaps it was time.

"Ok," John breathed, and then breathed again to remind himself that he could. "Look, I'm going to tell you something, but it has to be off the record," he insisted. Lestrade looked dubiously at him but nodded slowly. "It's about Sherlock."

He let the name hang heavily in the air. A significant pause fell between the men, and Lestrade let his mouth open in confusion before speaking quietly.

"He's not dead, is he?"

John wanted to laugh. Oh how he wanted to laugh, and loudly too. A long, loud laugh of relief. He hadn't had to say those words. Instead he shook his head. It took most of his energy to do so. Lestrade ran a hand over his tired eyes and chuckled nervously.

"Shit."

"I know."

"John, this is insane!"

"I know."

"How long have you...I mean, where is he now? What is he doing? Is he ok?"

John didn't know the answers. Those were the questions which kept him awake at night.

"I...I can't keep quiet about this, John."

"Please," John pleaded. "You have to. For now, at least."

"Well, I'm going to need a statement from you anyway. You're involved in a murder inquiry."

John grimaced. It had never mattered before. Sherlock would shrug it off and they would walk away. John didn't want to be involved. Did he?

"Fine," he sighed. "But not now, ok? Come round the flat later." He opened the car door, signalling the end of the conversation.

"John," Lestrade called from over the top of the car. He stopped to regard him. "Are you ok?"

John couldn't open his mouth to speak. He felt sick and tired, angry, frustrated, excited and relieved all at once. But mainly he just felt sad. He shook his head and walked away. Lestrade watched him go.

* * *

"You're misunderstanding what I'm saying," John said into his phone as he shut the front door behind him. "Yeah, yes, ok! But he didn't actually arrest me. He was just joking...I think." He listened into the speaker as he climbed the stairs. "No, oh God, please don't get him fired. He's coming round later, and I'll sort it. Will you let me sort it? Yes I know." He reached the top of the stairs and pushed the living room door with his free hand before coming to an abrupt halt. "Uh, Mycroft I have to go. No, don't come round. I'll call you tomorrow." He hung up, and stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the slim figure sat in the leather armchair, John's laptop balancing precariously on his knees.

"What mobile phone do you think I should buy?" Sherlock Holmes asked casually from behind the laptop screen.

John scoffed in indignation, trying hard to find the right words for the situation.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Sherlock looked up and smiled.

"I live here."

"Um, no you don't!" John paced across the room and snatched the laptop from his knees. "How did you get in anyway?"

"I picked the lock." Sherlock blinked. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes," John hissed. "Yes it is a fucking problem! I don't want you here. Go away." John surprised himself. He was physically shaking with anger. He'd heard of people being so angry that the world sunk away and they could see or hear nothing else. It had never happened to him before. Until now.

"You don't have the right to come back when you want to come back. You come back when I say you can come back!" he spat. Sherlock frowned at him.

"John...Grow up."

John wanted to scream, in fact he might have done. He was unaware and not in control of his actions, until suddenly he found himself alone in the kitchen, shaking uncontrollably. He stood there for a long, silent moment. It felt like sleep.

"John," a voice spoke behind him, making him jump. "Are you...cross with me?"

"Yes. Exactly. Well done, smart arse. What gave it away?" Sherlock began to open his mouth to reply, when John's glare informed him that the question had been rhetorical.

"Look," he breathed loudly. "I'm too tired to deal with you right now. Come back tomorrow. Maybe even knock on the front door like a normal human being. And then I might speak with you."

"Might?"

"Yes, might," he replied irritably. "What is it you want from me Sherlock? Did you expect me to be pleased to see you?"

"Well...yes, if I'm being honest. I'm pleased to see you, even if you are acting rather like a dick head."

A realisation hit John square in the chest.

"It was you wasn't it, in the street, that called me a jack ass."

"Yes."

"And banged into my bad shoulder."

"I regretted that bit," Sherlock admitted with a smile.

"I called you a dick head," John murmured and Sherlock nodded.

"I know, I heard. Don't worry, I've been called much worse."

"I wasn't worrying," John remarked pointedly, and the pair regarded each other in silence.

Suddenly, the silence was interrupted by a small, strangled squeak from the kitchen doorway, followed by a thud on the floor. Both men looked around in surprise.

"Oh bloody fantastic, Sherlock. Well done!"

John made his way quickly to the crumpled form of Mrs Hudson, lying in the doorway.

"Martha? Martha, can you hear me? Well, don't just stand there, help me with her."

"How exactly is this my fault?" Sherlock grunted as the pair carried their landlady to the sofa. John gritted his teeth. It was easier to blame Sherlock than deal with his own guilt. He knew he should have told Mrs Hudson. He'd wanted to for weeks, months even. But he hadn't been brave enough. This was his fault, not Sherlock's. John hated himself.

"Go and get some water." He heard Sherlock shuffle off in the direction of the kitchen. John lifted Mrs Hudson's feet and placed them on the arm of the sofa. Sherlock returned at his side, and looked curiously down at the unconscious woman. He began to swing the glass of water in Mrs Hudson's direction. John put out a hand to stop him.

"Wait! What are you doing?"

"I'm helping."

"It's for drinking, you moron. Just give her a minute."

Sure enough, the woman began to rouse, and John knelt beside her rubbing the back of her hand gently.

"I should have bloody well known," she murmured as she came to, and John felt a huge knot form in his stomach.

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

Mrs Hudson raised herself up from the sofa and pushed away the glass of water.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" she said to Sherlock, and John was surprised to see Sherlock avoiding the woman's stern gaze.

"And as for you," her voice cracked as she turned to John, her eyes watering as she blinked back tears. "There are no words to describe what you have done to me. I don't think I've ever been more disappointed in anyone in my entire life."

She made her way quickly to the stairs. John went after her.

"No. Don't you dare follow me!" she jabbed a finger at him and fled down the stairs. John squeezed his eyes tightly closed. It had all played out exactly as he had expected it would. And yet he had done nothing to prevent it from happening. He had hurt the woman that had loved him like a mother. She had taken him in, and scraped him off the floor when he didn't have the energy to live anymore. He had been too busy feeling sorry for himself to consider how she would feel. He was still feeling sorry for himself even now!

Ignoring her firm request, John made his way down to the ground floor flat. He wiped angrily at his eyes. He couldn't decide who he was most angry at.

"Martha! Open the door, please. I want to talk to you." John banged his fist against the glass until it hurt. "Open the door!" When he heard no movement inside, he kicked the door violently. It got the reaction he had been hoping for. The door was wrenched open.

"Don't you bloody well dare, John Watson!" Mrs Hudson shouted at him. "Don't you dare. This isn't about you, either of you, for once in your ridiculous lives. Just give me a moment at least to come to terms with what you two have been playing at. I will talk to you when I am ready. You don't have the right to be angry with me. You've brought this on yourself." She shut the door in John's face.

John stood trembling in the hallway from a moment, stifling an angry sob. He charged upstairs and began to rummage in the desk drawer.

"John?" Sherlock ventured from the kitchen door.

"Don't talk to me," John muttered as he made his way to the stairs. He didn't even want to look at him.

Sherlock listened for the sound of the front door slamming but it never came. Instead he heard rhythmic, dull thuds from deep within the house.

He found John in the basement, surrounded by bin liners of Sherlock's things. It felt like a life time ago since John had shoved it all into the black bags. But what had changed? John was still angry. He still had tears covering his face. He still had a huge gap in himself that was so painful that'd to anything to fix it. He just didn't know how.

John began to shoot at the chimneybreast, feeling his frustration flood out of him with every bullet that hit the wall. The loud noise reverberated around the tiny flat, making John's ears ring. He didn't care.

"H is for Hypocrite!" Sherlock drawled from the doorway and John shouted at him furiously before throwing the gun with force in Sherlock's direction.

"John...you just threw a gun at me."

"The safety's on," John spat and Sherlock blinked at him in surprise before laughing loudly.

"This isn't funny." But of course it was funny. It was one of those ridiculous situations that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes found themselves in; like chasing a murderous cabbie through the streets of London or wrestling with Chinese smugglers. John hoped he would eventually laugh at this, but right now it was far from funny.

"What are you still doing here? I asked you to leave."

"Surely you've realised by now John that I don't always do what I'm told. You're angry at me, apparently, and that's fine. You'll get over it. But I'm back, and this is my home. Quite frankly, I think you're over-reacting about all of this. Besides, this was my flat before you moved in. If you don't like me being here then you can move out."

"_One_ day, Sherlock. You'd lived here for one day, before I moved in. I've lived here for nine months all by myself."

Rattling around in a flat too large for him, with memories too painful for him. He wanted to share this with Sherlock but he couldn't bring himself to. This wasn't how he'd pictured their reunion at all. He'd hoped that Sherlock would have at least missed him, instead of helping himself to John's laptop and debating which mobile phone to buy, like he hadn't cared at all that they'd spent the past nine months apart. But of course, he should have expected nothing less from Sherlock Holmes. The selfish bastard.

"I want you gone. Get out of my home!" John lifted one of the black bin liners full of Sherlock belongings and threw it at Sherlock's feet.

"It's my home too!" He threw the bin liner back.

"That's enough!" a stern voice came from the doorway. The men jumped apart like guilty children. Mrs Hudson stood with her hands on her hips, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Now, this may be your home John Watson, but it is also my house. I feel that I should have a say in this matter. You've neglected that right so far." She turned to Sherlock. "You are a foolish, inconsiderate young man, and I am utterly appalled at your behaviour."

"I know," Sherlock mumbled into his chest.

"But I love you. And I've missed you terribly," she added tearfully. "Which is why I would like you to stay. Please."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. John scoffed in disbelief.

"John, you're just going to have to deal with this. And for goodness sake, put that gun away!"

She hurried back up the stairs to the ground floor, leaving the men stood in an awkward silence. Sherlock moved slowly and picked the gun up from the floor. It felt familiar in his hand. He recalled the last time he'd pulled the trigger. It had blown John's world apart. He hesitated and then handed it to John, who took it without a word. It was an act that had been so familiar to them, out on a case. Now it felt different. Strained. Mrs Hudson had told John to deal with _this_. Neither men knew how.

That evening, John kept to himself, not saying a word. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him and he wanted to know what the consulting detective could deduce from the man he found before him. John was curious to know, as he sure as hell didn't.

The room became darker as the night drew in, and neither of them could bring themselves to turn on the light. The lamp from the desk glowed brightly by the window, leaving them enough light to regard each other.

"Is he...dead?" John found himself asking. His voice surprised even himself in the quiet of the room. Sherlock looked up from his armchair and frowned.

"Is who dead?"

"You know..._him_."

"Do you mean James Moriarty?"

"Yes. That's exactly who I mean."

"Then why didn't you say that?"

John didn't want to. It made it all too real. It occurred to him that Sherlock hadn't answered the question but he didn't want to ask again. He let the silence fall.

It was half an hour later when Sherlock spoke the brief word.

"No."

John frowned trying to recall the last thing they'd been talking about. It didn't take him long.

"Right...Well, where is he?"

"John," Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "It really doesn't matter. Just let it drop."

John didn't want to let it drop. He needed to know; to close the horrific chapter that had dominated their lives. Surely he couldn't be the only one who felt like this. But the truth was he had no idea what Sherlock was feeling. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I just...wish you'd talk to me." Sherlock didn't answer. "Fine." John rose from his chair and headed for the stairs.

As he reached the hallway he came face to face with Lestrade, and cut him off mid-greeting.

"I'm not the man with the answers. He's upstairs." John pushed passed him and out of the door.

"John!"

The door slammed shut.

Lestrade made his way tentatively up to the first floor and knocked on the living room door. He pushed the door and found Sherlock Holmes sat in his armchair, his hands together under his chin, the dim light bouncing off his bored features.

"Lestrade," he greeted bluntly, as if he'd seen the man every day for the past nine months. "What's new?"

"Well...you're still alive."

"Correct. And you've started smoking again."

Lestrade laughed and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

"Shameful," Sherlock added with a smirk. Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock was back and up to his usual tricks. But there was something different about him. Lestrade couldn't tell what it was, but he knew he'd see it in time.

"Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes."

"It's good to be back."

At least someone was pleased to see him.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for the response I've gotten to this fic so far. I'm struggling with it if I'm honest, though I've already written the end so I'm determined to persevere.

John swears a lot in this chapter. I'm sorry if that offends anyone. It just came out that way. Naughty John!

This chapter includes part of a case from the original Sherlock Holmes stories by ACD. I can't remember which one. I'm sure some die-hard fan will be able to tell me. I thought I'd pinch the idea from ACD as I'm rubbish at thinking up cases.

* * *

John was staring blankly at his laptop screen. Sherlock was staring blankly at John. It had been this way for the past half an hour. The pair sat in their arm chairs, opposite each other. Together but apart. They looked like book-ends; a pair of individuals.

John typed aggressively, and then paused. He looked over the top of his laptop.

"Pack it in."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Exactly. Go do something. Stop staring at me."

John knew Sherlock was bored. Since returning into John's life two weeks ago, Sherlock hadn't had a single case. But apart from going out and committing an array of crimes, John wasn't exactly sure what he could do about it. He was pleased when Sherlock rose from his chair and crossed the room to the kitchen. Several minutes later, Sherlock was by John's side and placing something down heavily on the coffee table.

"It's a cup of tea," he announced unnecessarily. John raised his eyebrows.

"I can see that...Thank you."

Sherlock nodded and lowered himself back into his armchair. The staring recommenced. John took a sip from the mug.

"Urgh."

"What? Did I do it wrong?"

"No. I just don't take sugar anymore."

Sherlock looked confused. It was just another one of the changes in John Watson that he's have to remember. It was like relearning him all over again.

"I can try again."

"No. It's fine. Thank you."

Silence fell between them and Sherlock fidgeted in his chair.

"Why did you stop having sugar?" he asked after a while. John looked up, and thought on the question.

"I just went through a phase of not being able to afford it," he answered honestly.

"But what about the money I sent you?"

John winced. He'd felt embarrassed at the large amounts of money which had appeared in his bank account over the past nine months. He chewed on his lip in agitation.

"I didn't spend it. I didn't want your money, Sherlock." No, he had wanted Sherlock back. And now he had what he wanted. So, why wasn't he happy? "I saved it. You can have it back, plus interest. I put it in an ISA."

Sherlock laughed loudly, making John jump. It was such a foreign sound.

"That is so..." What was it? So _John_. Sherlock couldn't think of how to end his sentence so he just laughed again. John tried to smile in return.

Mrs Hudson suddenly burst through the door with several bags of shopping. She looked flustered as she placed the bags in the kitchen and then joined them in the living room.

"I thought you'd be gone by now, John," she said cheerfully. "It's Wednesday."

John stared at her blankly, before his face fell in recollection.

"Oh crap!" He snapped his laptop shut and launched himself from his chair and began to scramble around for his shoes.

"What time is it?"

"7:42pm"

"Shit! Where the fuck is my shoe."

"John. Your language is appalling."

"Sorry. I mean, 'Golly gosh where is my fucking shoe!'"

Sherlock watched John as he launched himself around the room. Mrs Hudson joined the search and found John's shoe under the sofa. As he struggled in his hurry to put it on, his phone began to ring.

"Hi, yes I know I'm late. I'm sorry. I've just set off." An obvious lie. "No I didn't forget. Look, I'm setting off now. No, don't come here! Buy me a drink, yeah. Something large and strong. I'll be there in 10 minutes...ok, 5 minutes. Bye."

"Who was that?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"A friend," came the vague reply. Sherlock frowned. John was keeping something from him.

"A man?"

"No, not a man."

"A woman?"

"Yes Sherlock. When you eliminate one, whatever remains must be the answer."

Sherlock pouted in irritation.

"John, don't misquote me back at me. I find it degrading."

John blinked at him.

"Fine. Sorry. I've got to go."

"Give my love to Molly won't you," Mrs Hudson called after him. John cringed.

"What? Molly?" Sherlock was out of his chair in an instant. "You're seeing Molly Hooper?"

"Yes."

"As in...a date?"

"What? No, of course it's not a date. We're just friends."

Sherlock chewed on this. It didn't sit right with him. Why hadn't John just been honest and said it was Molly?

"Mrs Hudson said it's Wednesday."

John paused in confusion.

"It _is_ Wednesday, Sherlock."

"Yes, but the way she said it implied that this is a regular thing. That you do this on Wednesdays. Am I right? Is Wednesday 'Molly Day'?"

"I don't have time for this," John growled as he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. It took him a brief moment to register that Sherlock was following him towards the stairs. "Um...Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm coming with you."

"No you're not," John laughed despondently. Of course, it hadn't occurred to Sherlock that John had spent the past nine months supporting Molly through the emotional wreckage of her life, which Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty had selfishly left behind. It also hadn't occurred to Sherlock that John had failed to mention that the consulting detective was still alive.

"No, Sherlock!" John insisted.

"But...I want to see her," Sherlock said, looking irritated at John's stern tone.

"It's Molly, Sherlock. Same as she ever was. Now please leave her alone."

"Fine," Sherlock said, defeated.

* * *

John arrived at the bar 35 minutes late. He smiled apologetically at Molly, as she sat waiting at a table.

"I am really sorry," he insisted, kissing her on the cheek. "Something came up that was..." Irritating? Exasperating? Sherlock Holmes? He left the sentences hanging. "Anyway, I'm here now."

John enjoyed listening to Molly talk about her work. He found her simplicity refreshing. With Molly there was no preamble, or talking in riddles. It was clear what she was thinking; it was written on her sweet young face. But John had definitely seen a change in Molly over the past couple of months. She understood the world a little bit more. It was just a great shame that she'd had to experience it in the way she had.

"You're daydreaming. Late and now daydreaming," Molly teased.

"I'm not daydreaming. I'm intrigued. This is my intrigued face."

Molly laughed.

"You're acting very strange tonight John. Are you sure everything's ok? There's something different about you."

He wanted to tell her, right there in the crowded bar, but then he remembered Mrs Hudson's reaction; the fainting and the screaming and the crying. He swallowed down his guilt and gave a forced smile.

"I'm fine. Couldn't be better."

Molly eyed him suspiciously but let it drop.

John was on his third pint when he hiccoughed in surprise mid-mouthful.

"I'm going to get another drink. Do you want one?"

"I'll get these," Molly went to rise from her seat.

"No, it fine. I'm feeling hungry. Pick me something." He shoved a large menu in front of her face and then dashed off to the bar.

"I specifically told you not to come," John snapped impatiently as he reached the bar. Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders and looked across the crowded bar towards Molly.

"She cut her hair."

"Yes she did. Now go away."

"I'm just curious. I won't stay long."

"No Sherlock!" John could feel himself becoming angry. Wasn't life so much easier when he only had himself to boss around? At least _he_ would do what he told himself...most of the time. "I'm not going to let her become your little hobby again, to use to your own advantage and fulfil your curiosity. She's not your toy. It's taken a long time to get over all the crap that you used to put her through and I won't let you ruin her. Not again."

"Are we talking about Molly or you, John?"

"Fuck off. Just fuck off."

The question had come like a slap in the face, and both men stood in silent surprise for a brief moment.

"I've got a case," Sherlock said quietly, changing the subject. "Do you want to help?"

"No." John's reply came quickly.

"Fine, then I'll see you at home." Sherlock turned on the spot, his coat billowing behind him as he marched out of the bar.

John ran a hand over his face. There was a part of him that wanted to chase after Sherlock, to tell him to be careful and not to do anything stupid. He wanted to help, of course he did. But he was so frightened. Not of the danger involved during a case, but by the thought of them coming full circle. Sherlock would leave him again. John swallowed down this thought. He could feel the realisation of his reasons for pushing Sherlock away bubbling to the surface. He wasn't strong enough to deal with them just yet.

Molly's voice spoke up by his shoulder, and he turned to see her wafting the menu towards him.

"I have no idea what you want to eat. I'm rubbish at picking."

"I'm not hungry anymore," he told her. He'd forgotten how to smile, and knew that any minute she'd notice.

"Who were you talking to?"

"Hmm? Oh, just a local nutcase."

"Your speciality."

John sighed, and found his smile.

"Yeah. Come on, let's get out of here."

John found himself being brave, and took Molly back to 221b with the confidence that Sherlock would still be out. As they reached the living room, Molly laughed.

"John, what have you been doing in here?"

There was stuff everywhere. A pile of books beside Sherlock's armchair had toppled over and splayed onto the floor. Several coffee cups littered the room and John began to collect them up automatically. Molly was staring curiously at the violin which had been left in the centre of the room for someone to put their foot through; either accidently or on purpose. As Molly sat herself down on the sofa she began to study the newspaper that had been left open on the coffee table. The headline told of a woman being shot in Central London. John suddenly snatched the paper up and threw it messily into Sherlock's chair.

"What have you been up to? It looks like a bomb went off." She immediately cringed at her own words. John spoke up quickly.

"I...uh...I've been looking for something."

"Oh...Did you find it?"

John pressed his lips together firmly. His eyes felt very hot. He looked away from Molly and his eyes fell on the packet of nicotine patched on the mantelpiece.

"No. No I haven't. Not yet."

Molly watched John curiously and he felt her eyes on him.

"Molly...listen, I need to tell you something."

* * *

John was brushing his teeth when Sherlock came in from the cold night air, looking irritable. _Don't mind me,_ John thought, rolling his eyes as his flatmate barged into the bathroom. Sherlock grabbed his own toothbrush and after dropping copious amounts of toothpaste into the sink, eventually shoved it into his mouth and began to brush away forcefully.

John frowned from his perch on the side of the bath, and spat into the sink.

"Bad night?"

Sherlock just scowled and continued to brush. John shrugged and popped his brush back into his mouth. Eventually Sherlock spoke up, spraying foam everywhere.

"_Whythewardrobe_?"

John spat again, wiped a fleck of toothpaste from his cheek, and regarded his flatmate; his dark eyebrows furrowing in thought and toothpaste dribbling down his chin. Lovely.

"I have..._absolutely_ no idea what you just said."

Sherlock spat and looked at John as if he was being highly inconvenient.

"I said: Why the wardrobe? The suspect hides the murder weapon in her own wardrobe to be discovered by the police. Surely no one is that stupid."

"Maybe she was set up?" John suggested.

"It's looking likely. But there's more to it than that."

Sherlock stood deep in thought, his toothbrush hovering close to his mouth. John sighed, rinsed his own toothbrush and sat back down on the side of the bath.

"The police were straight at the house after the shooting. If it was somebody else, why risk getting caught trying to set someone up? The victim was found on Lambeth Bridge. Why not just throw the gun into the Thames? Unless..."

"...There were two guns," John spoke up. Sherlock looked up from his reverie, as if John had punched him in the face...again.

"Idiot!" he exclaimed, and then finally rubbed the toothpaste from his face with John's towel. "Why didn't I think of that before?" They both knew the reason why. Sherlock worked best when he thought out loud.

John stared at Sherlock blankly before rising from the bath edge.

"Don't look at me like that," John mumbled.

"Like what?"

John sniffed and looked at his feet. When he looked up, he saw the frustration in Sherlock's eyes.

"Maybe you should take your skull next time."

John turned and left the bathroom.

"John..."

"I'm going to bed."

Sherlock followed him out of the bathroom and watched as he began to climb the stairs slowly.

"You told her didn't you? You told Molly about me."

John stopped and turned to look down at Sherlock.

"She was here. I can smell her perfume. Plus the two coffee cups; one with an intriguing shade of pink lipstick. Mycroft's is a darker red."

John wanted to smile. He almost did. Almost.

"Yes, she was here. And yes, I told her about you."

"How did she take it?"

John did smile this time. She'd taken it surprisingly well. Much better than Mrs Hudson had. Much better than he had. In fact, the calmness and understanding which Molly had shown that night had made John feel that maybe he'd been acting like a bit of a prat. He swallowed down his embarrassment.

"She's fine. She'll forgive you. Just, give her some time. Please?"

Sherlock nodded and frowned. Once again, neither of them really knew if they were talking about Molly or John.

"Well, good night." John carried on up the stairs leaving Sherlock on the landing.

Pulling out his phone, Sherlock gave a small smile as he typed a message.

_To: Lestrade  
Search the Thames. You'll find the real murder weapon.  
SH_

The reply came before he had chance to put the phone back into his pocket.

_1 New Message: Lestrade:  
Two guns? If you're sure, I'll send the boys out. What made you think of that?_

Sherlock looked up to the ceiling, and thought of the man lying awake in the room above him. He gave a broad smile.


	7. Chapter 7

John hadn't always hated Halloween. The gradual loathing of the commercial celebration had begun during his years as a medical student. There was something about the 31st October which caused children to bounce from the walls and adults to become drunken imbeciles in ridiculous tarty costumes. John preferred to hide away from some of the ghoulish sights he was likely to see on Halloween, which was why he was grumbling to himself when the hospital had called him that afternoon to cover a shift for a colleague who was conveniently ill.

Looking through the cupboards in his kitchen for something to make a sandwich with, he was still muttering under his breath.

"We need to go shopping," he spoke aloud.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope on the kitchen table.

"Is that the Royal 'we'?"

"No, Sherlock it is not! Seriously, don't start with me this afternoon I'm really not in the mood."

"So I see, you've been muttering to yourself for the past half hour."

"And? If I want to be pissed off in my own flat, then I can be."

"Don't let me get in your way," Sherlock replied in a quiet voice from behind his microscope. John sat down heavily at the table and began to scribble on a piece of paper. Moments later he thrust it in Sherlock's direction. Dark eyebrows rose questioningly.

"Yes?"

"It's a shopping list. Here is some money. Here is your key. Please stop picking the lock; you're going to break it. I've got to go to work." John pulled his coat from the back of the door.

"Can't Mrs Hudson go?"

"No. She's visiting her sister. Get off your backside and do something useful for a change."

Sherlock began to open his mouth to retort. He did lots of useful things. In fact some might say that hunting down murderers and often preventing crimes before they even occurred was the most useful thing that a human being could do with their spare time. But John had an angry glint in his eye, which Sherlock had to admit frightened him just a little bit. He decided to let the comment go.

Heavy footsteps charged down the stairs and the front door closed with a bang. Sherlock was left alone, glancing at the shopping list in curiosity. How difficult could it be? He put the list down and went back to his microscope.

* * *

John had already been at work for four hours. It was coming to the end of the squealing children shift, and would soon merge into the drunken idiot round. He gritted his teeth in anticipation. He wore a fetching pair of green scrubs, courtesy of a wretched child with gastroenteritis who had insisted on eating five chocolate bars and then vomited them up in quick succession. John wanted to go home. _Really_ wanted to go home. Home was quiet, home was warm, and home didn't smell peculiar...well, most of the time.

John sat himself down heavily in a seat at the nurse's station, and hid a yawn behind a chart. Only four more hours to go.

"Slacker," came a voice behind him and he spun in the chair. His friend and colleague Anna stood with her hands on her hips in mock disapproval.

"I was looking for a pen," John lied and she laughed.

"There's a patient in the waiting area asking for you," she told him and he frowned. "He's acting strangely. Think it must be a full moon tonight." She headed towards triage and John cringed at the sudden realisation of who his visitor could be. He walked over to the check-in desk and hid behind a partition as he scanned the waiting room. There, wedged between a homeless man and a small child dressed as a pumpkin, sat Sherlock Holmes. John gave a groan.

"See that man there?" John said to the receptionist, pointing at Sherlock, "Can you go out front and tell him that I'm not here."

Before the receptionist had chance to respond, Sherlock had looked up and spotted John through the sheet of security glass. He stood from his seat in a fluid motion and marched to the desk. John began to walk away.

"John... John...John!" A loud banging could be heard, as Sherlock smacked his palm repeatedly against the glass. John felt his face heat up. He _really_ wanted to go home. Then he could murder Sherlock Holmes in peace.

"Should I call security?" the receptionist asked, her hand poised over the phone.

"Uh, no it's fine. I know him. I'll sort it."

John made his way through the security door and dragged Sherlock by the elbow, out of the view of his congregating colleagues.

"What?" he snapped. "What do you want?"

"I got your shopping." Sherlock grinned and raised a Tesco bag in John's direction.

"_Our_ shopping," John snapped back. Sherlock's happiness deflated. He scowled at John.

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"I am pleased. What do you want, a medal? I'm at work Sherlock. Go home."

Sherlock looked around him, at the array of people in the waiting area. It seemed rather mundane. His phone began to ring and he pulled it out with a smile. It was Lestrade.

"You can't use that in here," John told him in a more polite tone, having noticed the waiting room's attention on the pair of them.

"Fine, I'm going. It's just...I left my key at home." John sighed and Sherlock scowled at him again. "It was you who made up the stupid rule about not picking the lock," he pointed out. John turned and headed towards the security door.

"I'll be two minutes...Don't talk to anyone!"

As John made his way back with his house key, Sherlock was munching on a packet of Maltesers.

"A child gave these to me," he explained, pleased with himself. John doubted whether 'gave' was the right word.

"This is my only key. You _must_ be in when I get home from work. It's really important," John stressed. Sherlock crunched away at his Maltesers and began to read a text. "Sherlock, what did I just say?"

"Something about being at home later," came the chocolatey response.

"You _must_ be home. _Must._"

"Yes. Must. Fine."

Sherlock took the key with sticky fingers and shoved it into his coat pocket. John sighed tiredly and watched Sherlock walk away, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. Only three hours and forty five minutes to go.

* * *

By the time John had finished his shift and made his way out of the hospital, it had begun to pour with rain. He hailed a cab, and was dropped off outside 221b. He should have realised immediately that the lights on the first floor were off. But he knocked repeatedly on the door and waited as the rain soaked through his hood. There was no response. John knocked again, and took a few steps backwards to stare up at the living room window. Darkness stared back.

He took out his mobile phone and thumbed at Sherlock's name angrily. It didn't ring. Shivering, John pulled the collar up on his coat, and watched a group of sodden adults in fancy dress go stumbling past on the other side of the road. He was cold, wet, tired and hungry. Most of all, he was angry, though not at all surprised. Snatching his phone in his damp hands, John called another number. This time it rang and connected.

"Yeah, it's me... No, I'm not ok. Listen, have you seen Sherlock?...Because I'm going to fucking kill him that's why! I've had enough of him, Mycroft. I can't do this anymore... I'm stood outside my flat in the pissing rain...Can you please just do something with him. I can't take it anymore...No, no don't send a car." John cleared his throat as the rain drops fell from the end of his nose. He tried to calm himself with a few breaths. "Why is this so bloody difficult?...I know. I know. Thank you." He ended the call and waited in the quiet, murky street. Twenty minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled up outside 221b, splashing water onto the pavement. John wiped angrily at his face and climbed in. He closed the door without looking back.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock smiled smugly as he listened to the rhythmic footsteps climbing the stairs.

"He's not in," he spoke up from behind the morning newspaper. The visitor stopped in the doorway.

"Yes, I am aware of that Sherlock, having just dropped John off at the hospital. It's you I came to see."

Sherlock looked up from his paper and scrutinised his older brother.

"Make it quick, I'm busy." The paper was raised to Sherlock's eyes again and Mycroft crossed to John's armchair and sat himself down in a deliberate movement. After a long moment's silence, Sherlock lowered the paper in curiosity to find his brother simply staring at him.

"Oh, for goodness sake! I'm in trouble, aren't I? What is it now?"

"We need to talk about John."

"Perfect. Yes, I've been meaning to talk to you about John. Quite frankly, I find it rather pathetic the way you use your friendship with John as a way of trying to belittle me. He runs to you at the slightest problem. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Knew," Mycroft interjected and Sherlock was silenced in surprise.

"I bed your pardon?"

"That's not the John Watson you knew," Mycroft repeated for clarification. A flash of anger crossed Sherlock's face but he hid it immediately. Of course, his brother had spotted it.

"Sherlock, I am aware that you are highly astute and observant man, but sometimes you really can't see what's right under your nose. John needs help. Maybe you're not the person to offer it but at least acknowledge it before it destroys him. He deserves that at least."

Sherlock scoffed, but his expression softened in thought.

"You're so clever Mycroft. It must be so tiring for you. Would it please you to hear me admit that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing?"

"No, not at all."

"Well I don't. John's broken. I can't fix him. I wouldn't have the slightest idea where to begin. Neither would you, so stop lording that over me. In fact, things would really be a lot easier for John and I if you just kept away. He's not your friend Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled widely from his chair and leant forwards towards his brother.

"Sherlock, jealousy really is an ugly trait in you."

Sherlock rose from his chair and crossed to the window so he didn't have to look at his brother anymore. He was cross with Mycroft, but ultimately cross with himself. It had been Sherlock who had asked Mycroft – begged him even – to look after John while Sherlock was in hiding. Mycroft had honoured that request, but Sherlock never expected John to like Mycroft. He'd not expected them to become friends. He'd also not expected John to be this...different.

He swallowed hard, and watched the flurry of people pushing their way down Baker Street. It tore a little hole inside Sherlock to feel this misunderstood. Sure, he'd been misunderstood most of his life, but he'd had the briefest glimpse of what it was like to have someone truly know him and through his own actions he'd lost that. John made his feelings towards Sherlock's disappearance and subsequent return perfectly clear. Sherlock didn't know how to express his own feelings about it. Maybe he didn't want to think about it ever again. Maybe John needed to hear it.

"What's wrong with him?" Sherlock asked quietly to the window.

"He's depressed, Sherlock."

"Well how am I supposed to fix that?" Sherlock spoke, raising his voice in irritation and turning to glare at his older brother. "I can't fix him. I thought I was helping when I went away and I made things worse. I've done this to him." The words hurt Sherlock deep within and he turned away to hide the turmoil on his face.

"Mycroft, he almost died."

"But he didn't."

"Exactly, so let's all just move on and not think on it again."

Why weren't things so simple? Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The more he thought back on that night, the more it made his blood boil. John had sacrificed himself to try and save Sherlock, grabbing Moriarty in a vain attempt to let Sherlock escape. At the time, Sherlock had been overwhelmed by the act. There stood a human being that not only cared for Sherlock enough to put up with severed heads and late night violin practice, but was willing to lose his own life. Now, it just made Sherlock angry. If there was one person in the world that deserved to live, it was John Watson. The man was an idiot for sacrificing himself over Sherlock. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever forgive him for that.

"Talk to him Sherlock. It's clearly hard for you. But one of you has to give in at some point."

"Why me?"

Mycroft laughed and rose from the chair.

"Because, Little Brother, John Watson will spend the rest of his life being a better man than you will ever be." It wasn't spoken in malice. Both brothers knew it was true. "Just do this one good thing Sherlock. Anything after that will be insignificant. You can go back to your usual obnoxious self."

Sherlock smiled sadly.

"And we'll all be a lot happier for it," Mycroft added, squeezing his younger brother on the shoulder before turning and walking briskly away. He stopped at the door and looked at Sherlock's coat hung limp and alone on a hook.

"Oh before I forget..." Mycroft's hand delved into Sherlock's coat pocket and retrieved a silver key. He dangled it between his fingers before putting it into his own pocket. "Lock John out again and he will break both of your lanky legs. His words...not mine."

Sherlock was left alone by the window, knowing that the threat would not be an empty one.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews, especially those who reminded me that the story from the previous chapter was The Problem of Thor Bridge. Sherlock fans are wonderful, wonderful people :-)

Things are going to get a bit happier in the next chapter. Contrary to the majority of my posts, I enjoy writing happy/friendly John and Sherlock as much as I do angsty/loathing John and Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

"When this all began, we knew there'd be a price to pay.  
Too late now, to turn away; we have come too far.  
I know we'll find a way..." - Jekyll and Hyde.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Sherlock heard the front door close and footsteps climb wearily to the flat. Knowing he was in the dog-house, Sherlock chose to linger in the kitchen until John found him. Rasping coughs could be heard, growing louder as John reached the first floor. Sherlock heard him groan as he threw himself down onto the sofa. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock and he poked his head through the kitchen door.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked bluntly. John's eyes remained closed. His forehead was warm and clammy.

"I'm sick."

"You're ill," Sherlock corrected. "We don't say sick, we say ill."

John sat up on the sofa and glared at Sherlock with bloodshot eyes.

"I _am_ sick, Sherlock. Sick and tired of you. Now piss off and let me be _ill_ in peace."

John lay back down and shut his eyes. Sherlock lingered in the doorway for a moment, puzzled by how he'd managed to piss John off in the brief ten seconds he'd been home from work. He'd attempted to be caring and concerned. It hadn't gone well. Huffing, he returned to the kitchen.

The room was considerably darker when John opened his eyes again. He sat up with a pounding head and contemplated lying back down. Then he heard the quiet voice of Sherlock, singing along to the radio in the kitchen. He was clearly enjoying himself though it was apparent he didn't know the words. John smiled despite his headache, and swung his legs off the sofa.

John stood in the kitchen doorway for a brief moment, blinking at the harshness of the bright light, and watching Sherlock busying himself at the stove. He cleared his throat; not just for attention but because he needed to. Sherlock looked around.

"Good evening."

"How long have I been asleep?" John croaked, shuffling into the kitchen and rubbing at his itchy eyes.

"About an hour."

John knew that Sherlock never estimated time, and that the consulting detective knew exactly how long John had been asleep. He was clearly making an effort to be less...Sherlock. It made John feel a little guilty. He eyed Sherlock suspiciously.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm cooking," Sherlock announced, pleased with himself. John frowned.

"Why?"

"Starve a fever, feed a cold," Sherlock chirped. John faltered; Sherlock was cooking for him. It moved him and terrified him all at the same time.

"Sit," he was instructed, and John did so, feeling rather weak.

"My mother would always make scrambled eggs when I was ill," Sherlock told John.

"But...you don't know how to make scrambled eggs," John replied warily. Sherlock smiled at him, and spun the laptop around on the kitchen table so it faced John. The warm smile of Delia Smith beamed from the screen. John blinked at it and then laughed, which made him cough. He then laughed again.

Moments later, Sherlock placed a plate heavily in front of John. John looked at the food, then at Sherlock, then at the food again.

"Cutlery?" he prompted.

"Oh, yes. Of course."

Searching through a drawer, Sherlock shoved a knife and fork in John's direction and then sat down opposite John, his chin resting on his hand.

John really wasn't hungry. He felt queasy and his throat was sore. Sherlock looked at him expectantly and John took a tentative bite.

"Is it ok?"

"Lovely. Thank you."

There was a pause as John took another mouthful. He swallowed it with difficulty.

"You know, you don't have to sit and watch," John said. Sherlock shook his head.

"It's fine."

In fact, Sherlock had forgotten how much he enjoyed watching John eat. It had been so long since they'd been out together; Sherlock rambling off facts as John chewed his food while chewing things over in his head. Sherlock thought best when he thought aloud. John thought best when he was eating.

When John had finished, he smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a smile back.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Good." Sherlock rose and put the plate in the sink. "You're doing the washing up."

There was a moment of silence.

"Is that...Are you...trying to be funny Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but John saw a twinkle of humour in his eyes which was often missed by those around him.

John made his way back to the sofa and the darkness of the living room, as Sherlock clambered around in the kitchen. By the time he joined John, he found him asleep again. He sat down on the sofa beside him and waited.

When John woke, he turned his head to find Sherlock looking up at the ceiling, deep in thought.

"Let's go for a walk and get some air," Sherlock announced suddenly, and rose from the sofa, stumbling across the dark room to find his coat. John frowned. It was being out in the damp cold night which had caused him to become rundown in the first place, but he found himself putting on his coat and following Sherlock down the stairs.

It was the first night of November and the air smelt of damp leaves. The pair made their way down the cold pavement of Baker Street. It didn't take long for John to realise that Sherlock had no idea where they were going. He walked with purpose, but much slower than his determined stride while on a case. John was thankful for this; the cold air at the back of his sore throat was making him cough.

They turned right down Outer Circle and followed the edge of Regent's Park. Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets and began to whistle tunelessly.

"Where are we going?" John spoke up eventually, with a croak. Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Suppose not."

They continued to walk in an amiable silence. John watched Sherlock watching the world, and wondered what was going through that quick mind. He supposed that, if he thought hard enough, he could figure out what Sherlock was thinking. It had been a likable habit that he'd formed so long ago. It seemed like such an effort now, so John decided to stare at his feet instead.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to John.

"How was your day?"

"Um...what?" John frowned at the question.

"Did you have a good day?"

"It was ok...I suppose."

"Good." Sherlock nodded once and continued to walk. John raised his eyebrows in bafflement and followed after him.

Sherlock decided to buy coffee as they passed a cafe, and as they stood in the queue, John thought back to his birthday, so many weeks back. It felt like a life time ago. It felt like the life of a different person. He had been happy though, at the thought that, somewhere out there in the world, there was someone thinking about him. The same someone who locked him out of the flat in the middle of the night!

They found a bench on the busy street, and sat watching the cars go past on the damp road. The headlights hurt John's eyes and made them water. He wished he was at home asleep. And yet, as he looked at Sherlock, a part of him realised that this was what he'd wanted for so long. He'd wanted things back the way they were. They would never be the same; it would never be what they had before. It could be similar. Maybe one day it would be better. John dismissed the thought with a shake of his head.

"So...What did Lestrade want last night? Do you have a case on?"

Sherlock swallowed his sip of coffee and shook his head.

"No. It was not worth my time. He's become rather clingy recently. He calls me up for the tiniest thing; thinks he's incapable of doing his own job."

_Wonder where he gets that from!_ John thought wryly but didn't say aloud.

"Maybe he's missed you Sherlock."

"Maybe."

They sat, shoulders touching, shivering on the bench. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. A frown formed as he thought through the words in his head.

"I'm sorry, John," he said quietly.

"Sorry for what?"

"For last night. It was inconsiderate of me, and I apologise. If it had been the other way around I wouldn't have been pleased. You have every right to be cross with me. So, I'm sorry."

"Oh," was all that John could say. Inconsiderate was right, amongst other things. But it wasn't being locked out in the pouring rain that had hurt John, more the thought of being forgotten by Sherlock. Having mulled things over the night before, and ranted incoherently at a mildly amused Mycroft, John had come to realise that he only had himself to blame. He had been pushing Sherlock away and distancing himself from their former life. It was hardly surprising that a man, who barely remembered what day it was, would remember his moody, self-pitying flatmate. John offered a smile in Sherlock's direction.

"Let's just forget it."

Sherlock brightened and the silence fell once more. A group of women tottered past in high heels squealing in the chilly, damp air. It made John feel even colder to see the bare flesh on display in the cold. He thought back to the warm evenings of Afghanistan, but found that he couldn't quite remember the details; like it was a memory of a story passed on from someone else. He touched his shoulder subconsciously, and noticed his hand begin to tremble. Well, it was a cold November evening. That must be why.

"I'm thinking of moving out," he announced suddenly, surprising the both of them.

"What? Why?"

John sighed. Where had that come from? Fair enough, he'd been mulling the idea over in his head for a long time, before Sherlock's 'Memorial' even. There was just something about the familiarity of the Sherlock that was with him on that bench which made him feel open enough to admit it. It was like talking to a friend about another person; when it fact it was one and the same. He closed his eyes, to hide from the long, hard stare he was receiving.

"I just think it might be time for a change."

"Where will you go?"

"I...I don't know. It was just a thought. I haven't decided yet."

"Oh."

Sherlock played with his empty coffee cup, tearing away at the cardboard rim.

"Will I still see you? I mean, we'll still be friends, won't we?"

"_Are_ we friends, Sherlock?"

The question caught Sherlock by surprise. Their eyes locked, as the question hung between them.

"I don't know...I think so."

In that moment, John saw something in Sherlock's eyes that he'd never seen before. He realised he'd hurt him more than any sniper or explosive ever would. John wanted to get up, walk away, and never have to look at the man ever again. He also wanted to undo all he'd just said, and much more besides.

"Well, you're _my_ friend anyway," Sherlock stated bluntly into his lap. And with those words, John knew that he wouldn't be moving anywhere. He couldn't.

An awkward silence fell heavily between them, interrupted by bursts of John's sniffing. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"It's bloody freezing!"

"Actually, it's three degrees Celsius."

John laughed.

"Alright, smart arse!"

Sherlock laughed with him.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go home."

* * *

A/N: Once again, thank you for the overwhelming reviews.

I'm not sure if this chapter works. I wanted it to be lighter but still awkward. Let me know what you think. The next chapter will be a biggie, but it's nowhere near completion. It's been quite a tricky one to write hence why it's not finished. I'll do my best to have it up by the weekend. No promises though. Here's a sneak peak...

_"John?"_

_"I'm here. Where are you?"_

_"Gerrard Street," Sherlock said. "I think I'm in Soho."_

_"Are you hurt Sherlock?" John pressed. It should have been the first question he'd asked. There was a long pause; too long for John's liking._

_"I...I don't know," Sherlock mumbled. "I think so."_

_"Stay where you are, Sherlock... Sherlock? Do you hear me?"_

...Dun dun duuuun! Lol.

Thanks for reading :-)

K


	9. Chapter 9

_"Oh Dr John...What am I doing? What am I doing wrong?_  
_Cause I keep on trying, something ain't going... something ain't going on, Dr John." - Mika_

* * *

What was that noise? John rolled over in bed, grimacing at the thought of his alarm ringing. He attempted to open his eyes, before realising they already were. It was pitch black.

John pushed himself up on to his elbows, and frowned. His foggy brain began to comprehend that the noise reverberating around the room was not his alarm clock but his mobile phone. He gritted his teeth as he reached blindly to the bedside table. If it was a bored Sherlock downstairs then John would probably kill him. He had to be up for work in a few hours.

The number on the glowing screen was not one that John recognised. He thumbed his phone to connect the call. It was an automated voice that spoke. A prim, female voice spoke into the darkness.

"You have a reverse charge call from '_John, it's me. Pick up!_' Please press one to accept the call."

John ran a hand over his tired eyes before pressing the number one. He could immediately hear the rustling of background noise, and a staggered breathing.

"John?" The sound of his name, in Sherlock's hoarse voice, caused John's stomach to lurch in panic.

"Sherlock? Are you ok? Where are you?"

"Uh... I'm in a payphone. I don't know where I am," the voice down the phone replied quietly. John was immediately up out of his bed, and switching the light on in a hurry. If Sherlock Holmes didn't know what street he was in then something was wrong. John tussled with his clothes as he pinned his phone to his ear with his shoulder.

"Can you find a street sign? Anything?"

"Uh, I'll check."

There was a bang, as the receiver swung against the cubicle wall, and John was left with silence. He used it to pull on his shoes and coat. As the seconds ticked by, John began to feel agitated. He picked at the skin on his left thumb.

"John?"

"I'm here. Where are you?"

"Gerrard Street," Sherlock said. "I think I'm in Soho."

"Are you hurt Sherlock?" John pressed. It should have been the first question he'd asked. There was a long pause; too long for John's liking.

"I...I don't know," Sherlock mumbled. "I think so."

"Stay where you are, Sherlock... Sherlock? Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

John disconnected the call, and immediately regretted it. What had Sherlock done with his phone? What if he went wandering off? He charged down the stairs and out of the front door with a bang, in search of a cab.

The clock on the dashboard was nearing 3:30am when the cab began to crawl down Gerrard Street. John was fully awake now, and buzzing with a strange feeling which he had to remind himself was adrenaline.

"Here! Can you stop here please?" He opened the door and jumped out into the cold night air. "Wait here. I'll be back." As John left the cab, both engine and meter running, he rushed to a dark figure sat huddled on a bus stop bench.

Sherlock looked up and smiled at John with a vague recollection. He tried to stand but couldn't. He clenched his teeth in pain as he spoke to John.

"John. What are you doing here?"

"What have you done?" John answered with a question. A dark trickle of blood had made its way down Sherlock's cheekbone, and his face was grazed. He looked like he was wearing some sort of crimson, distorted Phantom mask.

"I fell, I think," Sherlock said through staggered breath. His skin was an unusual shade of grey, even in the orange glow of the street light.

"Fell? From where?"

John followed Sherlock's gaze up to the top of a two-storey building, and gave a scoff.

"You have got to be kidding me!"

"I was chasing...somebody...I slipped."

John wanted to laugh, loudly, but Sherlock's head began to loll forwards gently.

"Why do I feel sick John?"

"You've hit your head."

"No, I don't think so."

John put his hand to Sherlock's hairline and the man hissed. Pulling his hand away, John showed Sherlock the crimson stain of blood upon his fingers.

"Oh..."

"Can you stand? We need to get you to a hospital."

"No, no, no, no, no."

"Yes. Do as you're told for once in your life!"

As John put his arm around Sherlock's waist to hoist him up, Sherlock gave out a cry of pain. John's initial thought was cracked ribs, but on closer inspection of the way Sherlock was holding himself, John began to realise it was something much more painful. He ran his hands gently over Sherlock's shoulder, not being able to make an accurate assessment through the man's torn coat. He gave a cringe of sympathy to his friend, whose eyes were closed in pain.

"It's dislocated."

"Put it back in!" Sherlock hissed at him angrily.

"I will...at the hospital."

Sherlock began to mumble something incoherently. John frowned and leant in closer.

"My... coat," Sherlock muttered glumly, and John nearly laughed at the sorry state of him. If there was ever a man who was more concerned about ruining his coat rather than dislocating a limb, it would be Sherlock Holmes. He offered Sherlock a sympathetic smile.

"We'll get you a new one."

"Won't be the same."

John managed to haul Sherlock up gently, and guided him on wobbly legs towards the waiting cab. The taxi driver began to mutter his unhappiness at his questionable new passenger, but was put in his place with an angry glance from John.

"Can you take us to St Bart's Hospital, please?"

"UCH is nearer," the cabby said with mild interest.

"Yes, I know." John struggled to hide the irritation in his voice. "But I want to go to Bart's."

"Fine, but if your friend dies en route don't blame me!"

John huffed loudly. Of course Sherlock wasn't going to die; at least not with John by his side.

A sudden ball of guilt formed in John's stomach, as he realised that this probably wouldn't have happened if he'd have been with Sherlock on this case. What had his excuse been? John couldn't even remember now. As he chewed his lip, he recognised that this was the first time in a long time that he felt he'd let Sherlock down. It'd had been the other way around for so long.

He was brought out of his guilty feelings by Sherlock's head lolling heavily on to his shoulder.

"No, no Sherlock you have to stay awake."

Sherlock murmured a response into John's shoulder, and John nudged him.

"We're nearly there. Talk to me, tell me about your case."

Sherlock's features drew into a frown, and John wasn't sure if he'd forgotten about his case, or if he doubted that John was really interested.

"Serial...rapist..." Sherlock fell quiet and John nudged him again.

"Keep talking Sherlock."

"He...runs fast." Despite his pain, Sherlock gave a little chuckle at his own words and it made John smile.

The cab pulled up outside the Emergency Department, and John threw some money at the driver. Carefully but firmly, he grabbed around Sherlock's waist and heaved in from the taxi. Several tentative steps later, the pair stood in the waiting room that John was more than familiar with. He left Sherlock in a plastic chair and headed for the reception desk.

"Good morning."

His colleague Anna looked up and laughed in disbelief.

"Bloody hell John, you're keen. Your shift doesn't start for another five hours."

"I know. You can't keep me away. I'm here with a friend. What's free?" he asked, craning his neck to glance at the patient board.

"Nothing," she remarked, and then sighed, seeing John's despondent face. "Hang about, I'll sort something." John smiled his thanks as she bustled away.

It was ten minutes later when Anna beckoned the pair through the security door.

"Bay 3. Don't say I don't do anything for you."

"Thanks Anna. Who's running the board tonight?"

"Dr Gregson."

John cringed and then tried to turn it into a smile.

"Wonderful."

The department was fairy busy, even during the graveyard shift. John fought to keep his eyes away from the other patients as they walked down the corridor. Sherlock was directed into Bay 3 of the triage ward and he sat on the hospital bed, fighting his closing eyes. John perched on the edge of the bed, talking to him in a vain attempt to keep him conscious. Anna made her way into the bay and sat down on the plastic chair beside the bed.

"Hello, I'm Nurse Stevens, can you tell me your name?"

"John Doe," Sherlock said. Anna glanced at John who smiled at her apologetically.

"He's kidding. Sherlock behave yourself."

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. My birthday is 19th July 1976. I live at 221b Baker Street, London NW1. I have no known allergies. I'm not on any medication. I'm in St Bartholomew's Hospital. My favourite colour is purple. Oh, and I'm an atheist, if that's one of your questions," he said, pointing vaguely at the clipboard. "Is that helpful?"

Anna glanced a John and then back at Sherlock before nodding.

"Right...thank you. Mr Holmes, can I call you Sherlock?"

"It_ is_ my name."

"Right. Sherlock, can you tell me what happened to you tonight?"

Sherlock described with minimal detail how he'd leapt from a two-storey building and how he'd landed head first onto the tarmac below.

"Did he lose consciousness?" Anna asked John.

"Um, I don't know...I wasn't there."

"Yes you were," Sherlock insisted.

"No Sherlock, I wasn't."

Sherlock looked at John, confusion written on his face. John looked away in remorse. He should have been there. He really should have. Now Sherlock was hurt and John hated himself.

"Ok, let's get you out of that coat so we can see things more clearly."

They helped Sherlock with his coat and he cried out it pain. Sherlock held his right arm against his chest awkwardly, and John began to run his hands over the shoulder gently.

"Anterior dislocation," John told Anna. "Can you make a call up to Benson in Radiography, he's going to need to take a look before the reduction."

Anna gave him a look of warning and smiled at him apologetically.

"I'm going to find Dr _Gregson_, and we'll sort you out with some pain relief."

She left the men alone, and they sat in silence, listening to the bustling sounds of the department around them. John studied the scarlet stain of blood down the side of Sherlock's face with obvious traces of grit from the contact with the floor. He went to touch the wound and Sherlock pulled away with a hiss.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sick," Sherlock mumbled, and John passed him a cardboard bowl. Sherlock looked at it dubiously. "Where did that lady go?"

"She's gone to fetch the doctor."

Sherlock frowned.

"You're a doctor."

The confusion on Sherlock's tired and battered face made John laugh.

"Correct. But as I am not on shift for another," he looked at his watch, "four hours and twenty-five minutes, I'm not the one who's treating you."

"Well, then I'll wait," Sherlock mumbled quietly, and John felt a warm ball of emotion spread through his stomach. He took Sherlock's hand and gave it a little squeeze.

"Besides, it's hospital policy that staff aren't allowed to treat their own family members."

As soon as the words fell from his mouth, John immediately felt stupid. Of course they weren't related, not in any conventional sense. He thought quickly for something to say.

"Oh..." Sherlock spoke up. He seemed to ponder the hospital rule, rather than John's sudden acknowledgement of family. They let the comment drop.

"You look tired, John," Sherlock remarked, but before John could comment, Dr Gregson arrived, with his eyes scanning the clipboard in mild interest. He seemed surprised as his eyes fell on John, but then smiled tightly at his patient.

"Hello Mr Holmes, I'm Doctor Gregson. May I take a look at you?"

"Anterior dislocation. You should make a call up to Benson in Radiography; he's going to need to take a look before the reduction," Sherlock echoed John's earlier words. They had the desired effect. The irritation on the man's face was clear. The doctor flared his nostrils and eyed John angrily.

"If you could wait outside, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock began to speak up in protest but John simply nodded and removed himself from the room. It was probably for the best, he was trying hard to keep the grin from his face. Dr Gregson addressed Nurse Stevens.

"Lacerations are fairly deep. Suture, don't glue." He turned to Sherlock. "Mr Holmes, we're going to patch you up down here and then send you for up for a CT scan and an X-ray." He gave a tight smile. Sherlock blinked at him. "But first I'm going to get Nurse Stevens to set you up with a Morphine drip."

"No, that's not necessary," Sherlock spoke up suddenly and insistently. Dr Gregson gave his annoying smile again. Sherlock wanted to wipe it from his face.

"Mr Holmes, you are clearly in a lot of pain. It is my job to do something about that. If you could just remain calm and sit still..."

Sherlock swung his legs over the bed and stood up. He wobbled slightly but his eyes were set.

"You're not listening to me. If you come near me with that needle then I will break you."

"Mr Holmes, please get back on to the bed."

Sitting outside in the corridor, John heard the sound of raised voices followed by an angry male bellow. He rushed into the room to find Dr Gregson holding his arm in pain, glaring angrily at Sherlock who was being ushered back to the bed by Nurse Stevens.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Your _friend_ has just bitten me!" Dr Gregson hissed heatedly. John's jaw fell in shock, and he looked at Sherlock who was trembling with agitation and looking at his hands.

"I'm going to call security. If he plays up again we will have to restrain him." The doctor marched out.

"Hey...hey...what are you doing?" John asked Sherlock desperately, as he shrugged off the comfort of the nurse. Pulling the plastic chair towards the bed, John sat down and took both of Sherlock's hands.

"Hey, look at me! What's the matter?"

"I don't like it here. I want to go home," Sherlock said through a shuddered breath. He held his injured face with a hand, feeling the tackiness of drying blood. He gave a groan of displeasure. "John please, let's just go home. I don't want them to put that stuff inside of me. I don't want to be that person anymore."

It took John a brief moment to realise that Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably, jolting his bad shoulder. As the nurse excused herself from the room, John perched himself on the bed and enveloped Sherlock into an embrace. Sherlock buried his bloody face into John's chest, clinging onto John's jacket tightly with his hands. John stroked the matted hair gently and it wasn't long until the fraught patient had calmed down.

"Sherlock," he ventured quietly, "no one can force you to have medication that you don't want." Sherlock nodded slightly into John's chest. "But we're obliged to inform you that _this_ is going to hurt like hell."

"I don't care," came the muffled response.

"Sherlock –"

"No, John." Sherlock sat up a little too quickly, and fixed John with a desperate stare. "When it comes to pain, it'll take time, but my body will heal. I accept that. But when it comes that _stuff_," he swallowed down the word bitterly, "John, I just don't think I can trust myself."

"Ok...ok."

They broke apart as the nurse entered.

"Suture kit," she announced, placing it down on the sideboard.

"Are you going to –?"

She shook her head.

"Mr Holmes, I'm going to leave you in the capable hand of Doctor Watson."

John mouthed his silent thanks over Sherlock's head, and she gave him a smile.

"I wouldn't hurt you," Sherlock spoke up sincerely as she began to leave.

"I know," she replied with a warm smile, before leaving them alone again.

"Right," John said, rubbing his hands together encouragingly. He pulled his chair closer towards the bed and pulled on the surgical gloves. "I'm going to clean you up first, and then I'm going to anaesthetise the area, if that's ok with you?"

"Fine."

As John tentatively touched the bleeding hairline, Sherlock suddenly snapped his teeth together with a growl, in the direction of John's hand. It was a vain attempt at humour to diffuse Sherlock's awkwardness. John's hand never flinched. He gave a tired sigh.

"I'm only going to say this once; I have never been, and never will be afraid of you, Sherlock Holmes. Now sit still, unless you want to lose an eye."

The grin soon fell from Sherlock's face as John carefully cleaned the wound. John then eyed the measure of anaesthetic carefully.

"It's been a while since I've sutured," he said conversationally, to break the silence. Sherlock blinked at him.

"John...Your bedside manner is appalling."

John laughed and then took a deep breath to steady and focus himself.

"This might hurt a bit. You'll feel a slight scratch..."

Sherlock hissed slightly and John cringed at the thought of Sherlock's shoulder, and the pain yet to come.

"You ok?"

"Yes. Just get on with it before I bleed to death."

"Right. Sit still." He leaned closer to Sherlock, needle poised.

"Make me pretty, Doctor Watson."

"Yeah, I'm not a miracle worker."

John concentrated on his work. He noticed that Sherlock wasn't breathing and reminded him to do so. Grey eyes met brown.

"Stop watching me, you're distracting me."

"Well, you're in my face."

"Look at the door."

A beat passed between them and they burst out laughing.

"Don't. Don't make me giggle, I need to concentrate."

Sherlock tightened his lips into a line and sat motionlessly as John continued to close the wound.

"We should do this more often," Sherlock spoke up eventually.

"What? Suturing?"

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes but didn't dare with a needle so close by.

"No, I meant being out and about, having fun in the early hours, like we used to. You're always in bed before 11, John. It's so dull."

John nodded silently, thinking the words over in his head. It was true; he was in bed by 11, he was stuck in his routine, and he was dull. It was so ironic that a bump to the head was what he'd needed to realise what he was missing...It just hadn't been _his_ head! He suddenly felt a wave a regret wash over him, that he'd wasted so much time being angry and hurt.

"I'm done with this," John mumbled quietly, and moved away. Sherlock frowned at him but was interrupted from his response by a surly porter arriving to take him to Radiography.

"I...I'm going to stay here," John spoke as Sherlock sat irritably into the wheelchair. "I'm going to phone Mycroft."

"Urgh, John no, please don't!"

"Look, I just want to let him know you're ok."

Sherlock looked dubious. John felt dubious too. He watched Sherlock leave the bay, and then made his own way slowly out of the security doors, through the waiting room and into the cold night. John stood for a moment, eyes closed, trying to remember the feel of his pillow against his cheek. The memory was fading fast. He cleared his throat before fumbling for his phone.

"Hi, it's me. Did I wake you?...No, I'm at the hospital. Your brother has been playing a game I like to call Face vs. Pavement...Pavement won... No, no he doesn't want you here. He's feeling very sorry for himself. Look, I just wanted you to know that he's fine, and I'll let you know when we're home...It's fine, really. It's what I'm here for. I'm fine...I'm _not_ lying. I'm just tired. Ok, bye."

John disconnected the call and ran a hand over his tired face. _It's what I'm here for._ John was questioning what he'd meant by that. He'd like to convince himself that he meant it purely professionally. But there was a tugging inside of him that knew that his place was by Sherlock's side, picking him up off the floor. He'd been ignoring the duty for far too long.

John stifled a yawn. How could it possibly be 4:30am? He sat still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city around him, his phone between his hands in a prayer-like position. A male voice caused his eyes to snap open.

"I should report him for assault."

John scowled deeply at Dr Gregson before heaving a sigh.

"I strongly advise that you don't waste your time. That man can't be touched." John began to walk away.

It was Gregson's turn to scowl.

"He just bit me! The man's not right in the head. I was trying to help him for goodness sake. What's his problem?"

John turned abruptly, making his colleague step back in surprise.

"_That man_," John hissed angrily, "is a former drug addict, and you tried to stick him with a dose of morphine without even discussing it with him first. He bit you because you frightened him!"

The doctor looked confused and speechless before standing to his full height and looking down at John defensively.

"How was I supposed to know that?"

"You could have tried asking," John spat at him, knowing his temper was getting the better of him. "If you value your career even slightly then I suggest you go and apologise. Better yet, stay out of our way. One word from Sherlock Holmes and you could find yourself handing out the Metro in King's Cross...if you're lucky. You'd better hope he's forgotten your name."

John began to walk away, his face flushed with anger. Dr Gregson stopped him with a comment.

"Who the hell is this man?"

John turned to regard him, and answered the question with a low, deliberate tone.

"That man is my best friend, and the most dangerous man you've ever met."

* * *

A/N: Here's a little tip...Never give a teaser and update date without finishing the chapter first. I've totally lost my mojo and this hasn't turned out how I'd hoped. This is also Part 1 of what is an incredibly long chapter. It felt right to break it there. Part 2 is still in progress.

I've nearly finished writing this story, but I feel I've lost my confidence, hence the really late update. I don't want to give up so close to the end, but I'm not happy with the quality of my work at the minute. I've tried to make it heartfelt but a little bit lighter. I'm so used to writing angsty John, I've forgotten how these friends should be together. Maybe I'm putting too much pressure on myself.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think.

(Btw I don't know when Sherlock's birthday is so I used Benedict's birthday :-))


	10. Chapter 10

When Sherlock returned to the Emergency Department, John noticed that the injured man was flagging somewhat.

Sherlock lay back down on the bed, closing his eyes wearily as John studied the x-ray.

"Well, the good news is that it's a clean dislocation. You won't be needing surgery."

"Hurrah," mumbled the tired patient. "I can only assume that the bad news is that you now have to shove it back in?"

"Those weren't going to be my exact words, but yes, pretty much. Before we even attempt this, I just want to run a few things by you first: Firstly, I shouldn't be doing this. It's not my shift, you are not my patient. Please don't sue me if it goes horribly wrong. Not that it will. I just want you to know that I could lose my job for this, so be grateful."

"Noted."

"Secondly, this is going to hurt... a lot! I just want to give you the chance to change your mind about any analgesics before we begin."

Sherlock shook his head firmly and John nodded.

"Ok. I'm going to fetch Anna, for backup...in case you bite me." He was semi-joking.

With Nurse Stevens back in the room, John asked Sherlock to lie down flat on his back. John explained the manipulation, and Sherlock remained still, his eyes closed and his jaw set tightly.

"John, stop wavering and get on with it."

Both men took a deep breath, and John gently manoeuvred Sherlock's arm until there was a sickening pop, followed by an even more sickening sound of Sherlock howling out in pain. It made John physically wince. He let out a deep breath and tried to dissuade Sherlock as he struggled madly to get off the bed.

"Relax, Sherlock. Deep breaths." It was hard for John to witness the sob which escaped from Sherlock.

"Bloody...Fuck that hurt!"

"I did say it would."

"I thought you were being...dramatic," Sherlock said through struggled breaths. He'd become clammy and pale. "I'm going to be sick." He managed to sit up, and the nurse passed him the bowl with seconds to spare. Sherlock gave a groan, and John moved the damp curls from his forehead.

"Feeling better?" Anna asked, handing him a cup of water. Sherlock could only nod. She left the room, taking the bowl with her.

John perched himself on the bed and smiled at the sorry sight in front of him. He rotated Sherlock's shoulder into various positions before making a sling to support the arm. He nodded with satisfaction.

"How's that?"

"Much better. Thank you." Sherlock managed a shaky smile. "Is it time to go home?"

John shook his head apologetically.

"No, you've still got your CT scan. It's policy for patients who've thrown themselves from a building in the middle of the night, while chasing a criminal; to check that they do actually _have_ a brain."

"John...are you trying to be funny?" Sherlock asked in confusion. John grinned at him.

"Yes. Just call me Patch Adams."

Sherlock's confusion deepened, and John laughed loudly. References like that were of course lost on Sherlock Holmes.

Sometime later, when both men had nearly collapsed with exhaustion, Sherlock was called up to Radiology for his CT scan. The technician was a man who was far too jolly for the time of morning. He greeted them with a beaming grin and took the chart from John.

"Ooh, we've got ourselves a biter," he laughed, eying up the notes. "It says Gregson on here."

"Yeah, it's complicated," John murmured, too tired explain.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes. If you could just pop up onto the bed for me, we'll get you comfy."

He ran through the procedure with Sherlock, but John could tell from the man's eyes that he'd mentally switched off. It was only as the technician and John began to walk away that he spoke up.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't stay in here, Sherlock," John explained apologetically. "I'll be right next door. We'll be able to talk to each other. Ok?"

Sherlock nodded his head reluctantly and the men left the room. As the technician sat into his worn chair, he glanced at the notes again.

"It says here that he's altered."

John looked away from the viewing window and his eyes met the technician's.

"What? Oh...no, he's always like this."

The technician began the procedure, and Sherlock moved slowly into the scanner. The microphone was switched on.

"John?" came an anxious tone that John had never heard from Sherlock before.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Sherlock," the technician spoke up. "I'm going to start the scanner now. It's very important to keep absolutely still, or else we'll have to start again."

John cringed at this instruction. Telling Sherlock to stay still was like telling a small child not to stick their fingers into an electric socket. Sure, the man could sit unmoving for days on end, when it was his choice. He was also capable of being as skittish as a moth on a light bulb.

"Ok," Sherlock replied quietly.

It was only two minutes into the scan when Sherlock began to get restless. He listened to the humming of the machine, and felt his chest tighten as he looked up to the low ceiling of the capsule. Suddenly he felt very dizzy and he didn't like it at all. It had been a long time since he hadn't felt in control of his own body and he began to feel frustrated. A sudden, unwelcome image arose in his mind as he thought of a coffin at his own Memorial Day; bright white and shining with the arrogance of Sherlock's deception. He'd narrowly escaped that coffin, and now he couldn't help but feel that Death had crept up behind him and pushed him off that roof for being the cocky bastard that he had been. He tried to swallow, and his eyes began to sting.

"John? John!"

"Yes? Sherlock, calm down. What's the matter?"

"I don't like it in here."

"Just a few more minutes Sherlock, keep still," the technician spoke up. They heard Sherlock's anxious breathing, and John bit his lip as his eyes stayed fixed to the machine through the viewing window. "Can you talk to him? Keep him distracted," asked the technician. John nodded and moved closer to the microphone.

"Sherlock...it'll be ok. I'm right here. When have I ever let anything bad happen to you? Mycroft would kill me."

"He likes you more than me," came the quiet response. John paused at the words, not entirely sure what Sherlock meant. Did Mycroft like John more than he liked Sherlock? Or did Mycroft like John more than Sherlock did? John didn't think that either statement was true.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Sherlock," John said quietly.

"You wouldn't have been able to catch me."

"True," laughed John. "But maybe I could have stopped you doing something so stupid in the first place."

"I do stupid things when you _are_ there too."

"Like sticking a bullet through some Semtex?"

As soon as the words had left his mouth, John immediately regretted it. Shrugging off the curious look from the technician, John's mind worked quickly to think of something to fill the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them. But a part of John didn't want to change the subject. This is what he'd needed for so long; for Sherlock to acknowledge that it had happened and had blown a hole through their entire friendship.

"Do you...uh...do you regret it?"

"Yes," came the quick reply. John stayed silent, hoping that Sherlock would elaborate. "It broke you; in more ways than one. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for that."

John wanted to speak up; to tell Sherlock that he had forgiven him for it. But the words wouldn't come, and his face felt hot with the technician's eyes upon him questioningly.

"Did Mycroft ever tell you I came to see you at the hospital...after?"

"No... No he didn't."

Sherlock thought of the tubes, and the monitors and the unpleasant smell of the hospital. He could remember it vividly; the way John's hair had stuck to his head from the water, and the way Sherlock had watched John intently with just the slightest suspicion that his friend wasn't really alive.

"Mycroft warned me...he said you'd never get over this, and it kills me...it kills me that he was right."

John buried his face in his hands and exhaled deeply. Was this really the best place to have this conversation; at five in the morning, with Sherlock enclosed in a CT machine and Gary the technician listening in with extreme interest? John decided that no, it wasn't.

In the machine, Sherlock lay still, picturing the look on John's face as he heard those words. There was so much more that John needed to hear, but Sherlock didn't think he could say the words. He wanted to admit to his dearest friend that he hadn't been trying to fool Moriarty by faking his own death; he'd been hiding from the fact that his own actions had nearly cost John his life. He'd been hiding from the fact that there was one person in the world that cared about him and would sacrifice their life for him. It made Sherlock feel sick.

"Right, Sherlock, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that we're all done."

As Sherlock was moved out of the machine, and John went to join him, neither man could quite bring themselves to look the other in the eye. Sherlock was taken back down to the Emergency Department, where John left him quiet and alone, for a long while. Sherlock's body longed for sleep, but his mind buzzed with the events of the night. He pulled his coat onto his lap, and began to toy with the holes in the torn fabric as he waited for John. Maybe John wasn't coming back? He dismissed the ridiculous notion, and sure enough, John returned, looking worn out but content.

"So," he said, hopping up onto the end of the bed. "Do you want the good news or the good news?"

"I'll go for the good news."

"I thought you would. Your scan's been checked out and it turns out that you _do_ have a brain after all."

"As I predicted. What's the second piece of good news?"

"That you have no brain damage; nothing that's been caused tonight anyway."

Sherlock looked disappointed.

"Oh. I thought it might be that I could leave."

"That's the third bit of good news. Come on, let's go home," John said with a smile, as he pushed himself off the bed. He had a sudden overwhelming wave of emotion as he saw the beaming grin on Sherlock's face.

It took a great deal of energy for them to wave to Anna as they passed to the exit, and a great deal more to summon the cab to take them home. By the time the pair had reached Baker Street, Sherlock was fast asleep and breathing softly into John's shoulder. John nudged him as the cab pulled up to the door.

"Oi. I can't carry you."

"I bet you could," Sherlock slurred sleepily.

"Nice try. Out you get."

Sherlock made it out of the car and up the stairs stiffly. Once upstairs, John left Sherlock on the sofa, as he hurriedly searched for some Ibuprofen before Sherlock dozen off again.

Sherlock had been asleep for only ten minutes when John heard a ringing sound coming from an armchair. Under a cushion he found Sherlock's mobile, and answered it before it woke the man sprawled on the sofa.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock?" came the familiar voice of D.I Lestrade. John checked his watch. 7 o'clock? When had that happened? He had to be at work at 8:30. He sighed wearily.

"No, it's John."

"Hi John. Is he about? He went charging off last night, and then he never came back."

"Yeah, he's had a bit of an accident, we've just been at the hospital all night. He's fine. He's asleep now, and it needs to stay that way which is why I'm not going to tell him you called."

John heard Lestrade chuckle.

"Fair enough. I'll call him tomorrow?"

"Make it two days."

John ended the call and put Sherlock's phone into his own pocket. He then reluctantly got showered and ready for work. As he hurriedly ate a bowl of cereal, he scribbled a note for Mrs Hudson:

_Sherlock's not to leave the house. He can take some tablets again at lunchtime.  
__Please try and get him to eat something. I'll be back tonight. John x_

Concerned that it sounded like a note about a newly neutered cat, John then drew a sketch of a stick-man falling from a roof, with a speech bubble which read: "I'm an idiot!" purely for his own amusement, but he hoped Mrs Hudson would appreciate it. He folded the note up, and put it in his pocket to post through her door on his way out.

As he fumbled with his coat, John heard a mumble from the sofa.

"Where are you going?"

"To work," John told him resignedly.

"Oh." And with that, Sherlock had fallen asleep again.

John smiled and placed his hand lightly on Sherlock's head before heading back to the hospital.

As he stepped out in to the bitter November air, John clutched his phone in his cold hand and scrolled his contacts. The phone only rang once before the call was connected.

"Yes, it's me and yes he's alive...You sound surprised," John said with a laugh. "I didn't say pleased, I said surprised... No, don't go round. He's asleep. I'm off to work now... I'm fine. I'll be fine...I'm _not_ lying! Look, I'm sure you have something much more important to do than to worry about me..._Now_ who's the one who's lying?...Yeah, I'll let you know how he is tonight. I mean it, don't go round. Did your mother never teach you to let sleeping morons lie?" He gave a loud laugh at his own words. "I've got to go. I'll call you later."

John placed his phone back into his pocket along with his cold hands. Despite his exhaustion and the thought of doing a full day's work on three hours sleep, John couldn't fight the smile on his face. There was something familiar about fighting through the day without sleep. There was also something about picking Sherlock up from the floor that John found so comforting. He was just worried that he'd start to enjoy it.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers who gave me back my enthusiasm and confidence. The next chapter will be the penultimate one and it's all coming together nicely though I will be sad to see it end :-(

I meant to say in the last chapter that I have absolutely no medical knowledge. I've just looked things up on Wikipedia, so if you're of a medical background and there is fault in my writing then I'm sorry!

Thanks for reading.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Sorry for the delay in this chapter. I'd written most of it, but when I realised I couldn't fit Mycroft into the epilogue, I wanted to fit him in here, as he's been an important part of this story. It might not work as I've kind of just forced him in, but there you go.

This chapter is dedicated to** LittlePippin76** who gently reminded me that I have a story to finish! So it's thanks to her that you're reading this chapter. Maybe you could go and thank her by reading one of her fics, they're fab. Plus I squealed like a fan girl when she showed me what she has coming up in her brilliant fanfic mind. It's going to be awesome! Thanks Pip :-D

Next chapter is the epilogue, though it might be split into two if it's too long. For now, enjoy this one. I think you will...

* * *

"Something is wrong with the sum of us, that I can't seem to erase.  
How can I be the only one without a smile on my face?  
You're laughing out loud at just the thought of being alive.  
And I was wondering could I just be you tonight?" Could I Be You – Matchbox Twenty

John stumbled wearily down the street towards home. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so tired. As he walked, a stray firework shot up into the air, lighting up the evening sky. John didn't even have the energy to scowl at the group who had set it off, further down the street.

The key turned stiffly in the lock and John breathed in deeply. He was home. It hadn't even been 24 hours since John had received Sherlock's call in the night. It felt like days had passed. John felt very old as he climbed the stairs to his flat. Warmth and quiet greeted him. The light in the living room was off but the lamp glowed warmly from the desk.

John stood for a long moment staring at the figure asleep on the sofa. Sherlock was exactly where John had left him. An untouched sandwich sat on a plate, balance precariously on the sofa arm. John studied the row of sutures on Sherlock's forehead; his own handy work. The bruising had developed, and spread down Sherlock's face into a dark purple crescent under his right eye. John frowned as he surveyed the damage. Sherlock looked a mess.

"John?" came a gentle voice from the kitchen, and it took John a moment to realise that he recognised the voice and that John was his name. He opened the door quietly and slipped into the warm, bright room. Mrs Hudson put her reading glasses on to the kitchen table and scrutinised her tenant. A half-finished Sudoku sat in front of her.

"You look terrible, Love."

John could only laugh. He sat down beside her and placed his head in his arms on the table.

"He's not moved all day," she told him. "He's been fast off."

John nodded into his arms. Mrs Hudson rose and pottered around the kitchen as she made some tea. As she put two mugs heavily on the table, John looked up at her through bleary eyes and offered a small smile before putting his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder. She drew her arms around him instinctively.

"What's the matter? What's going on in that head of yours?" John simply shrugged into her. "Just need a cuddle, eh?"

"Yeah," John croaked, closing his eyes. He cleared his throat. "I'm thinking...maybe it's time that I got over this."

There was a brief silence as Mrs Hudson stroked his hair lightly.

"I think it's time that we all did," she replied quietly. She pulled away from him and held him at arm's length as she looked at him significantly. John nodded. Face brightening, Mrs Hudson squeezed John's hand and sat down beside him.

"Right, what would you like for your tea? We've absolutely nothing in. I'm terrible."

"You're perfect," John corrected, and she hid her blush behind her mug of tea. "Besides," John spoke up, "I'm not really very hungry." His landlady rolled her eyes and began to mutter something about 'the pair of you!' as she grabbed her Sudoku and pen.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson and John looked at each other.

"Expecting someone?"

"I have an idea who it might be."

John trundled down the stairs. He was greeted with a waft of cold evening air and a Holmesian smile.

"Before you say anything, I must point out that I've brought Chinese."

John sighed, and shut the door behind Mycroft Holmes. He waved the man upstairs with one hand, and carried the brown paper bag with the other.

"You look awful, John."

John's comeback was lost, as Mycroft headed for the living room. He took one look at his sleeping brother, grimaced, and turned swiftly into the kitchen.

"Lemon chicken for you," he told Mrs Hudson by way of greeting, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "Kung Po beef for John. I think I'll have the Chow Mein, and we'll leave the Sweet and Sour for Sleeping Ugly in there."

"Oh, hasn't he made a mess of his face," Mrs Hudson said in agreement.

John sat pushing the food around with the fork, as Mycroft and Mrs Hudson chatted amiably. When they spoke of Sherlock, they spoke with affectionate despair; like the owners of a disobedient puppy. When Mrs Hudson excused herself from the room, Mycroft turned to John with a smile.

"I'd very much like her to come and live at my house."

"You can't have her," John spoke up light-heartedly. "She's mine."

"Ah, now you're sounding like someone else we know."

John didn't reply.

"She's very quaint; a Dormouse at our very own Mad Hatter's tea party."

"I suppose that makes me the Mad Hatter?"

"John, we all know who the Mad Hatter is here," Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows significantly. John smiled as he thought of the man asleep on the sofa. "No, no, I'd say you were more suited to Alice, John. Though I have the sneakiest suspicion you aren't ready to wake up yet."

John mused on Mycroft's words, and thought back to the past few months; hearing about Sherlock's death, grieving for his friend, and then finding it hard to fit the exceptional man back into his life. Mycroft was wrong... partly anyway. The past few months, John had been very much awake. He was ready to go back to sleep now.

"You're tired. I should go."

"No, it's fine, really."

Mycroft smiled at John and rose from his seat, and John followed him down the stairs to the front door.

"I won't be seeing you for a while, John." John wasn't sure what these words meant, so he waited for Mycroft to elaborate; he didn't. It was clear to Mycroft, but not to John, that something had changed within the doctor's eyes. It pleased Mycroft and saddened him at the same time. "Call me, if you need to, at any time. I'll be there."

"Thank you," John replied quietly. Mycroft took John's hand and shook it firmly. He held it for a moment longer and then let it go.

"Goodbye John."

John watched as the man got into the back of the black car parked on the double yellow lines outside of the front door. He shut the door, and exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"What the hell was that all about?" John murmured to himself, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head in confusion. He made his way back up the stairs to the quiet flat.

As he passed, John took a quick glance through the living room door and was surprised to see two grey eyes blinking back at him from the sofa. Sherlock sat up awkwardly and attempted to smile. He winced.

"It hurts to smile," he croaked sadly. John blinked at him and then burst out laughing. Sherlock frowned and then fought hard to fight the grin from his own face. "No, please. Please don't make me laugh."

John struggled to control his giggling, and crossed the room to sit beside his forlorn flatmate.

"How are you feeling?"

"About as rough as you look."

"Thanks...Do this," John demonstrated with his own shoulder, and Sherlock moved the sore joint around carefully. "Any pins and needles in your arm? Numbness?"

"No."

"Squeeze my fingers." Sherlock obeyed. "Good news, it turns out I'm a good doctor."

"I've always said so."

They sat silently on the sofa for a long moment.

"Mycroft was here," Sherlock spoke up suddenly, and John turned to look at him.

"Let me guess, you can smell the Chinese food from the restaurant that only _he_ goes to?"

"No," Sherlock said bluntly. "I heard you talking. You should know by now that I'm a Master in the art of fake sleeping."

John nodded silently.

"He was worried about you; we all were."

"Well, clearly I'm fine now," Sherlock insisted, trying to keep the irritation that his brother provoked out of his voice. John studied Sherlock for a long moment, noticing the man's discomfort at being on the receiving end of scrutiny.

"Are you though? Fine I mean. I know what 'fine' means. I've been 'fine' for months. You should know by now that I'm a Master in the art of being 'fine'."

Sherlock managed a smile at these words.

"What do you want from me, John?"

"I want you to talk to me."

Sherlock sighed deliberately, and struggled as he rose from the sofa.

"Not now. I'm tired. But I will...soon. Is that ok?"

John could only nod. He rose to join Sherlock and fumbled in his pocket.

"Take these with you."

Sherlock held out his hand, and John pressed two paracetamol onto his palm.

"Two identical pills?" Sherlock mused. "You take one, I'll take the other. We could end this tonight."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"_I_ thought so," Sherlock told John, shrugging with one shoulder.

John handed Sherlock the rest of the packet.

"In which case, you might as well take all of these, that'll do the job."

When Sherlock looked taken aback, John put his face in his hands and laughed nervously.

"Oh God, sorry... that was a really stupid joke. Please _don't_ do that." He took the packet back from Sherlock, just in case.

"Since when have I ever taken your advice?" Sherlock said over his shoulder with a smirk, as he shuffled down the corridor towards his bedroom. John watched him go.

* * *

John had only been in bed for an hour when he heard the stairs to the second floor creak. Having said that, he hadn't managed to fall asleep in that hour, instead he'd watched the shadows bouncing off the ceiling as the cars passed on the street below.

John rolled onto his side to face the door, regardless of the poor light. The door was pushed open hesitantly.

"You should be asleep," John spoke up in a tone as paternal as he could muster.

"I feel sick again," came the forlorn voice from the darkness of the doorway. John sat up in bed and sighed.

"How many paracetamol have you taken?"

There was a thoughtful pause.

"Just the two you gave me earlier."

"Have you eaten?" Silence. "Well there you go then." The mattress moved under the weight of a new body, and Sherlock gave a groan into one of John's pillows.

"Sherlock, I know you're in pain and I know you're feeling sorry for yourself, but you've got to give yourself a few days before you start feeling better. Contrary to popular belief you are human."

There was a silent pause as Sherlock thought this statement over in his head. It wasn't really the pain and nausea that were keeping him awake. He thought it was boredom that was aching his already sore body. In truth, it was loneliness.

"Can I sleep in here with you?"

John groaned and rolled onto his back, wondering when he'd gotten old enough to be father to a 34 year old child.

"Don't fidget," he instructed, and felt Sherlock settle down beside him.

"John...?"

John inhaled deeply.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Are we ok?"

John flinched at the question. It was awkward, but of course Sherlock was as oblivious as ever to the fact that John didn't want to be asked that question in the middle of the night. Why had he asked it? John couldn't deny that something significant had shifted between them in the past 24 hours. Not only had John felt he'd begun to recognise Sherlock's own internal upset, he'd also begun to forgive him. He was glad the light was off; he didn't think he could cope with seeing the look in Sherlock's eyes. He gave a shuddered sigh.

"I...I think we will be."

"Good, that's good," came the clipped reply and John smiled into the darkness. Sherlock fell silent, and John began to drift to sleep again. Suddenly, a dull bang rang out in the street; a stray firework exploding high into the air. Sherlock physically jumped at the noise.

"It's ok, it's just a firework," John spoke up, his voice clear from the sudden adrenaline.

"I know that," Sherlock insisted. "Well, _now_ I feel silly," he murmured.

But it wasn't silly at all. The two men had been through a horrific ordeal together, nearly lost their lives as the explosion had consumed the building around them. John had been frustrated and displeased with Sherlock's unwillingness to acknowledge this. It was only now he realised that Sherlock was simply not strong enough to relive it...yet.

"John...remember when I was having my scan..."

"Hmm."

"That was quite possibly the _worst_ time to bring up what happened at the pool."

John laughed loudly into the darkness. Sherlock had known why he'd done it, of course. John had needed the conversation as some sort of closure; he'd needed it for weeks. Sherlock had been neither willing nor able. What better time to bring it up when Sherlock was confined. Oh, John Watson was a very clever man; much more clever than Sherlock would ever be. Sherlock finally has a sense of what it was like to be the one manipulated.

"I was annoyed with you," Sherlock stated. He could picture the curiosity on John's face as he replied.

"During the scan?"

"No, during the pool...after...The fact that you would lose your life to save me, it makes me feel...well, I don't know the word for it. You're a very stupid man, John Watson."

Stupid and brilliant.

"You'd have done the same for me." The response held no trace of doubt.

"That's different," Sherlock shot back, causing John to sit up on the bed and glare at him through the darkness.

"How exactly is that different?" The irritation built between them and Sherlock began to think quickly for the words that could diffuse the situation before an argument exploded around them.

"You're a good man, John. You shouldn't die. You don't deserve to."

"Right! And I suppose you do?"

"I'm not good. I'm far from good."

The men let the words sink it. Sherlock wasn't admitting a weakness, he was perfectly happy with the way he was. He was simply stating it as it was. A fact. He was great, brilliant, sharp; but he was not a good man. If he was inclined to believe in Heaven and Hell, Sherlock knew he'd be going to Hell for sure.

"Well then...I'll help you be good," John said in a quiet voice. Sherlock sat up to join John, struggling with his aching shoulder.

"You mean...you'll come on cases again?"

"If that's what it takes," John said with false weariness. Internally, his stomach jolted with anticipation. John would stop Sherlock when the rudeness became overpowering, he would remind him that stealing from the morgue was wrong, he would encourage him to treat firearms with respect, and most importantly not to dive head-first from buildings at three in the morning.

"Shake on it?"

They fumbled awkwardly with each other's hands in the dark, before lying back down onto the bed.

Sleep had nearly taken them both when John spoke up quietly.

"Thank you...for coming back."

Sherlock smiled to himself.

"I wouldn't have gone in the first place. Not if I hadn't had to."

John nodded. He finally believed that now.

"You know, Sherlock," John mumbled, fighting sleep, "some things are worth dying for."

Sherlock gave a low chuckle.

"You mean Queen and country?"

"No."

Both mean had known what John had meant. They felt it between them; their mutual bond of friendship, the impossible thought of existing without the other. Dark without light, and light without dark. It wasn't possible.

"You're getting sentimental in your old age."

"Do you want to sleep on the floor?"

There was a pause.

"No."

"No, so shut up then. Go to sleep."

Sherlock smiled and rolled over onto his good side.

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock."


	12. Chapter 12

Epilogue: The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton

Six weeks later...

It was early evening on a Sunday in the middle of December. John Watson sat at the desk, huddled over his laptop, shivering from the draft through the sash window. He placed his hands around his mug of tea, and raised it to his mouth. Suddenly, his mug was jolted in his hand, as his excitable flatmate bounded to the window and bellowed in a voice too loud for John's liking:

"SNOW!"

"Yes," John commented simply, as Sherlock left the window as quickly as he'd reached it, and fled into the next room. John attempted another sip, but was disturbed by his phone, beeping noisily for his attention.

_1 New Message: Mycroft Holmes  
It's snowing!_

John laughed loudly. He was fortunate enough to know the two most brilliant minds in Britain, but clearly when it came to the simple things like weather, the Holmes brothers had lived a very sheltered life.

He sent a single-worded response: _Yes._

Sherlock suddenly appeared at his shoulder, and stared curiously at the laptop screen.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm reading the news."

"John, how many times have I told you, the MSN homepage is not news!" Though his tone was derogatory, his eyes remained fixed to the screen. "Wait, what's that?"

John clicked on the headline: **Footballer and girlfriend to marry at Christmas.**

"Hmm."

"Hmm?" John echoed in confusion. "I didn't think you'd be interested in footballers and WAGS."

"I wouldn't be normally, but it just so happens that this so-called 'WAG', is a client of mine."

John looked up at him in surprise. He hadn't even realised Sherlock was on a case. Sure, he'd been more energetic than usual, but John thought that Sherlock was just...happy.

"So...?" John prompted, and Sherlock looked puzzled, before realising that that was his cue to start talking.

"Twenty-seven year old Eva Brackwell, fiancée to footballer Carl Dovercourt, rather foolishly sent some risqué texts to a man that was not her fiancé. She's now being blackmailed for several thousands of pounds and could ruin her marriage before it's even begun. She's asked me to find the mobile phone and destroy it before it all goes public."

John nodded as he followed Sherlock's spiel. Once the man had finished, John chewed on his lip in thought.

"So, where are you going to start looking for this phone?"

Sherlock gave a scoff.

"I already know where the phone is."

"Of course you do... silly me," John muttered under his breath.

"Have you ever heard the name Charles Milverton?" John shook his head. "Charles Milverton is head of a large media corporation in the city. I've only met him briefly a couple of times and...how can I say this eloquently...?"

"He's a dick head?" John supplied, and Sherlock nodded his approval.

"Oh good, you follow."

"So you think he has the phone?"

"Oh I know he does. And I think a bit of housebreaking is in order." Sherlock turned suddenly and grabbed his coat and scarf. "It's a shame it's snowing; snow is possibly the worst weather when committing a crime. Footsteps galore. Never mind, it'll thaw out before...What do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock stared at John who had paused, his hand grasping his own coat on the door-hook.

"I'm coming with you."

"Um...No, you're not."

Both men stared at each other stubbornly. John's jaw dropped in indignation.

"I think you'll find that I am!"

"You're not coming, John." Sherlock snatched the jacket from John's hands.

"Then you're not going, Sherlock!" The jacket was snatched back into its owner's hands. "Sherlock, I kid you not, if you go on your little robbery escapade without me, I'm going straight down to the Yard and grassing you up myself...And I won't be sorry."

Sherlock looked taken aback.

"Why would you say that, John? That's just mean."

John pulled on his jacket and then crossed his arms defiantly. Sherlock smirked at the determination on his friend's face.

"Well, I suppose it's good to have a cell-mate I know I can live with."

"Um...I was thinking more of keeping you _out_ of prison, not joining you in there," John protested as he was shepherded towards the stairs.

Sherlock and John arrived at the offices of Milverton Media Centre and crouched low behind the wall which bordered the property. All was eerily quiet, and the street lamps glowed dimly in the falling snow.

"Right, I've managed to discover, after several lengthy chats from the charming girl on the security desk, that there are two weak security points into this building. One is through the fire escape on the roof at the far side; access of which is via a rusting metal staircase. The other is also through a fire escape, in the waste disposal area."

"Waste disposal," John voted promptly and Sherlock scoffed.

"Really? Says the man who retches when he cleans the bathroom."

"Says the man who has _never_ cleaned the bathroom. Oh yes, I said that! Don't think I haven't noticed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dismissed the jibe. The pair headed around the high wall silently, where they struggled in the snow to make it over the wall to the other side. Eventually they landed in the malodorous dustbin area and, as John held his breath with watery eyes, Sherlock took out the thin glass pane with a jab of his elbow.

Once into the dark corridor, Sherlock ushered John silently in the direction of Charles Milverton's office. He picked the lock with surprising speed and the door swung open heavily.

"Keep watch," Sherlock instructed.

"Yes boss."

John hovered by the door as Sherlock made his way quickly to the safe which was located in the bottom of a dark wooden bureau.

Every second that passed felt stretched, as John stood silently in the door way, straining his eyes and ears in the darkness. Behind him he heard Sherlock inhale in satisfaction as the safe was opened, and the noise of rustling papers sounded strangely loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Suddenly, John's stomach lurched as he heard the sound of heavy footsteps on carpet. He wafted an arm madly in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock surveyed the room and indicated for John to follow him as he hid behind a long, heavy curtain by the cold window. Both men stood silently beside each other, holding their breath as Charles Milverton entered his office slowly. He switched on the desk lamp and sat for some time, looking intently at a letter on his desk.

Behind the curtain, John had the extreme desire to laugh as he caught Sherlock's eye. Sherlock glared at him. There was a sudden rumble and John frowned before mouthing:

_Was that your stomach?_

Sherlock nodded.

_I told you to eat something!_

_Perspective!_ Sherlock mouthed back in irritation, and John covered his mouth with his hand to fight the laugh which threatened to erupt. Sherlock elbowed him in the ribs.

Milverton was talking quietly but heatedly on his mobile phone. He suddenly rose from his desk and made his way back out of the office. Sherlock leaned closer to John and squeezed his hand tightly as a signal that he was confident in what he was doing. John flinched in uncertainty as Sherlock stepped out from behind the curtain and headed back to the safe. He halted abruptly in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

"What?" John hissed from behind the curtain. Sherlock frowned.

"It's nothing," he murmured. He was sure he'd seen a petite silhouette in the doorway, and a pair of dark feminine eyes which had disappeared as quickly as they'd appeared. Sherlock shook the thought from his head and crossed to the safe which he had left ever so slightly ajar. John crept out from behind the curtain and headed back to the door. Moments later, Sherlock heard John hiss his name and he looked up to see Milverton's surprised face in the doorway, scowling down at John angrily. John barged passed Milverton and made a run for it. To anyone other than Sherlock, it would have seemed like an act of desertion, but Sherlock knew that his friend was buying him time, as Milverton chased after John furiously.

Sherlock grabbed what he'd come for and scrambled up off the floor. He knew the building layout; John didn't. Sherlock cursed silently, as he ran out of the room and down the corridor. He took a brief moment to study the carpet, and saw the damp traces of their footsteps from on the way into the building. Turning on the spot he attempted to make out the footsteps made in haste moments before. It was dark but Sherlock was fairly confident in the direction John and his assailant had fled. Sherlock moved quickly after them. He grabbed his phone instinctively and connected the call as he moved. It rang only once before a hushed, frantic voice responded.

"Not a good time!"

"Where are you?" Sherlock pressed, not sure why he was whispering back.

"Um...I'm on the ground floor still. There's some men's toilets."

"Listen carefully. Go down the hall, back towards the entrance, take a right, then the first left, and you'll come to a back door...John?" Sherlock could hear John's breath down the phone.

"Or I could just break this window?"

"Yes...you could do that."

"Gotta go!"

"I'll meet you outside."

Sherlock felt suddenly alone as the call was disconnected. Swallowing down the feeling, he began to move along the corridor, listening carefully for any movement in the shadows of the darkened rooms which sat on either side of the long hallway. He came skidding to a halt on the carpet as he heard the ringing sound of a shot through the air. A wave of dread rushed through him as he recognised the noise as a shotgun, not a handgun. He took a deep, calming breath and kicked at the metal bar which released a set of fire doors into a dark courtyard at the back of the big building. Sherlock ran out into the cold.

Over the sound of his own breathing, Sherlock heard the heavy footsteps in the distance as he made his way across the courtyard. Being surrounded on all sides by tall brick walls, Sherlock knew the only way out was to climb the metal staircase, which led upwards to the roof. The ground was icy, and he slid to a halt at the bottom of the staircase to catch his breath. The frozen air made his throat sore. Sherlock looked back the way he had come. He'd dropped his scarf in his haste; it was a shame.

"Sherlock!" A familiar voice echoed around the courtyard. Sherlock's large smile ached his cold face. He caught sight of John across the courtyard. The man came to a slippery halt beside him.

"We have to get out of here," John panted.

"An excellent plan."

An angry pattering of footsteps could be heard making their way out into the yard, followed by an irate male voice. Sherlock ascended the stairs briefly before halting and turning suddenly. John bumped into the back of him.

"Did you pick up my scarf?"

"What? No!" John replied in disbelief. Sherlock blinked at him. "No, Sherlock! I'm not going back for it." He pushed Sherlock, who continued to climb the staircase, their clanging footsteps echoing noisily.

From below, both men heard a gunshot.

"Move faster!"

"You're full of great ideas tonight!"

Sherlock reached the top of the staircase and heaved himself onto the roof of the building. The cold wind bit at them as they looked down into the dim night.

"Did you get it?" John huffed.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, producing the mobile phone from his pocket and then placing it back for safekeeping. He made his way to the other edge of the roof, his toes peeping down below to the roof of an outbuilding. Footsteps could be heard clanging against the metal stairs, and he had to think fast.

"Do you think we can take him?"

"He has a shot gun."

"And?"

"My answer is no."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. He frowned at his next idea. John had only just begun to start trusting him again. If he played the next step wrong he could undo all that they'd worked so hard to fix.

"We're going to jump," he decided firmly. John gawped at him. "On to the outbuilding, then on to the floor," he added with certainty. John's mouth still hung open. "Or, I could just leave you up here," Sherlock mused. He recognised John's stance immediately; stubbornly holding his ground, his arms crossed defensively across his chest.

What happened next surprised them both...

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and flung the both of them from the roof. It didn't go to plan. The pair fell with a crash, through the sheet roofing, and onto the cold hard floor below. They were lucky the sheet roofing had slowed their fall.

The silence felt loud after the crash. Sherlock sat up suddenly.

"Ah...Oops."

He hadn't predicted that. No matter; he'd remember for next time. He turned to his friend who was lying motionless beside him.

"John? Are you alright?"

John's shoulders began to shake and Sherlock began to panic that he'd seriously hurt him. As John pushed himself up, he let out a howl of laughter.

"You...pillock!"

Sherlock laughed with him.

"Are you ok?" he asked John again. John had grazed both of his hands and knees. But there was something strangely therapeutic about being pushed from a building by your best friend. John just nodded.

"How's your shoulder?" John asked, scrambling up from the floor.

"Hmm? Fine. Fine. I rolled the other way."

Of course, catapulting oneself off a building was becoming Sherlock's speciality. They grinned at each other, and a sudden gunshot broke them apart.

They continued to run at a pace, and made their way to the bordering wall of the property. Sherlock jumped up with ease and scrambled himself on to the wall.

"Come on, John!"

John looked apprehensive, but jumped for it, and Sherlock caught John's hand in his as he hauled him up.

"If you weren't such a short arse, this wouldn't be a problem," Sherlock groaned under the effort. "It's like living with a Hobbit!"

"Oi! Less of that! Mind your bad shoulder," John said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, thank you Doctor," Sherlock said impatiently, before jumping down the other side. As John went to swing his legs over the wall, he was suddenly caught at the ankle by a set of strong fingertips. He swore quietly, and kicked his legs as his captor held on tight, shouting aggressively up at John. John kicked with his free leg and felt the grip loosen on his ankle. He wriggled free and tumbled to the snow covered ground at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock blinked down at him in exasperation.

"Idiot!" he mumbled with a sigh as he offered his hand to John. "Home?"

"Yes please."

The pair began to walk off quickly into the night.

"I might even make you a cup of tea."

"Bloody hell. What have I done to deserve that?"

"Well, I have just pushed you off a building."

"True. Very true."

Sherlock stopped and looked at John. The man was tired, cold and sore. But he looked like John. His John. The one who he'd hoped so much to come back to him. Sherlock smiled at John.

"Well, I could hardly leave you behind, could I?"

The words hung significantly between the two of them. He _had_ left him behind. But never again. Sherlock had come to realise that he couldn't quite function without John Watson. He didn't want to either.

"My scarf, on the other hand..."

"Oh shut up moaning, we'll get you a new one."

It was later that evening, as the clock neared midnight, when the doorbell rang at 221 Baker Street. Both men had thawed out and dried off from their earlier adventure, and were sat comfortably in their armchairs when Lestrade made his way wearily up the stairs to Flat B.

"Good evening Detective Inspector," Sherlock greeted amiably. Lestrade sat himself down heavily on the sofa.

"No it's not. I bloody hate snow. Look, something's come up. I know it's late and it's rotten out, but I'd appreciate your help with this."

Sherlock looked over at John, who was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"There's been a break-in at Milverton Media Centre. The safe has been forced, but everything of value appears to have been left. The staff can't be certain what was in there, as it belonged to the CEO..." Lestrade paused.

"Go on," Sherlock prompted.

"He's dead."

Sherlock and John's jaws dropped. They looked to each other, and back to Lestrade.

"Oh," they said in unison. Lestrade laughed.

"You seem surprised. I wouldn't be foolish enough to bother you with a simple 'breaking and entering'."

"Quite," replied Sherlock, smiling tightly.

"So, will you come and take a look?"

Half an hour later, John and Sherlock found themselves back at the scene of their crime, staring down at the lifeless body of Charles Milverton which had fallen awkwardly on the large wooden desk. Sherlock inhaled deeply, noting the faint smell of expensive perfume. He could almost taste it on his tongue. He gave a small smile.

"Yes, you're quite right Lestrade. He does appear to be very much dead. Wouldn't you agree, John?"

John was finding it very hard to make eye contact with anybody in the room without having the immense urge to giggle.

Sergeant Donavon entered, looking disgruntled. She approached Sherlock and thrust a ball of sodden fabric towards him.

"This is yours, isn't it? You must have dropped it." She turned immediately and marched away. John came to Sherlock's side, as the consulting detective eyed his snow-covered scarf.

"Was that an act of kindness from Sergeant Donovan?" he asked John.

"Stranger things have happened," John mused.

"I think she likes me more, since I've been dead."

"I think she liked you best when you _were_ dead."

Sherlock laughed loudly, and felt the eyes of several police officers fall on the pair of them. He beckoned for Lestrade to join them.

"What do you know, Lestrade?"

"Well...there are several pairs of footsteps fleeing the scene. A witness spotted two men, but only got a glance at one of them." He checked his note book. "White male, late 30s, approximately 5ft 8, light brown hair and size 10 feet."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Well, that could be anyone. That description fits most of London. In fact, you've pretty much described John."

John glared at Sherlock as Lestrade stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"You're right. That's why I need your help."

Sherlock stood quietly for a moment, deep in thought. He suddenly looked up and clapped Lestrade on the arm apologetically.

"I can't help you," he admitted. "These men will be out of the country by now. They were clearly after something which belonged to them. We'll probably never find them, not unless they strike again. Sorry about that. John, a quick word..."

Lestrade watched as the pair crossed the room and spoke intensely for a brief moment. John was shaking his head at Sherlock's insistence, and then retorted firmly. Sherlock's shoulders lowered in defeat and he marched to the door when he stood impatiently.

"John," Lestrade spoke up and John crossed over to him. "What was all that about?"

"Oh, it's nothing."

Lestrade felt frustration building up inside. Since when did Sherlock Holmes ever admit that a murderer couldn't be traced? And so easily too. What was he hiding?

"Really? It didn't look like nothing."

John swallowed hard and then laughed awkwardly.

"Oh, he just fancies Chinese, that's all. But we had Chinese last night. I was thinking maybe Indian, but we've agreed on Italian."

Lestrade blinked in astonishment.

"Oh, sorry...Would you like to come?"

"No, no. I have work to do."

"Oh, of course. Sorry. Well... see you." John smiled apologetically and wandered off towards his flatmate. Lestrade ran his hand over his tired eyes and watched the pair go bickering out of the door.

"Same old Sherlock Holmes," Sally muttered beside Lestrade. He looked to her and smiled tiredly.

"Do you think so?"

"Why? Don't you?"

Lestrade just shrugged.

"So, what happens now?" Sally asked with a sigh.

"We get back to work," the D.I told her.

"'We' meaning?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in her direction. She huffed and marched away.

Lestrade watched the two friends from the window, huddled together as they made their way through the cold night. This case had clearly not grabbed Sherlock's attention, but Lestrade knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock would be getting under his feet again. In all honesty, Lestrade couldn't wait. Sherlock Holmes was back in business...and he wouldn't be doing it alone.

The End

* * *

A/N: Well, that's that!

Obviously The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, not me. I've just modernised it and had fun playing with it :-)

A big thank you to **LittlePippin76** who checked this over before I posted, and for laughing in all the right places! I think this is the most anxious I've been about posting a chapter, purely because it's the end of what has been months of hard work, and I wanted to do it justice! Let me know what you thought.

Thank you to those who have followed this story, and stuck with it to the end, especially those who have left such encouraging reviews. It's meant so much to me :-) Thanks to those readers have not only read this story, but started at the beginning of the trilogy with The Broken Man and Harder To Breathe. I hope this journey has meant as much to you as it has to me. I'm getting soppy now. I should stop.

So what's next? I've got a couple of ideas in the pipe-line. I'd like to have a go at taking on 'Baskerville' before Moffat and Gatiss get their hands on it next autumn (I've heard rumours). There may well be some one-shots along the way, but for now real life is calling. I'll be back though. Watch this space.

With love and thanks,

K xxx


End file.
